requiem for the damned
by 0019
Summary: Dr. Kristian Thomassen never intended to spend what's left of his graduate life like this. (or, chaos breaks out in an esteemed teaching hospital in london. doctors vasch zwingli, arthur kirkland and kristian thomassen have a lot to answer for.)
1. dragged back, a sleepyhead

**dragged back, a sleepyhead**

"Could be leptospirosis."

"It's not lepto, Zwingli," says Kirkland, tapping his foot against the table leg. "Did you even read the file? No rash. Anyone have any suggestions that actually make sense?"

"It could be alcoholism?" Edelstein suggests. "Alcoholic liver disease would account for—"

"We'd have seen it on the tox screen," says Kristian, peering at the papers strewn over their conference table. "Besides, he doesn't drink. Told Héderváry he's watching his weight; no red meat, cut down on carbs, no alcohol."

"Dr. Amore is right," says Kirkland. "Nice neck, by the way."

Kristian glares at Kirkland, adjusting his collar to cover the marks on his neck. From the other side of the room, Kirkland raises a mug of tea to him. Next to him, Héderváry grins.

"Do a CT," Kristian says, sighing. "He might have a tumour, which would account for all his symptoms."

"Liver cancer without chronic liver disease?" Zwingli challenges. "Have _you_ read the file, Thomassen?"

"It's rare but possible, which I might remind you is what we tend to deal with in here."

" _Children_ ," says Kirkland, standing up. "Leave Thomassen alone, Zwingli, he had a late night. You and Edelstein can do a CT, Héderváry can talk to the patient's wife about the risks of surgery, and Thomassen — see me in my office."

Kristian raises an eyebrow as his colleagues gather their papers and scurry off, leaving the conference room. As Kirkland gathers his files to dump unceremoniously in his office adjacent to the conference room, Kristian sighs again and calls, "You know, my dates aren't actually relevant to the patient. Or anyone else, for that matter."

Through the doorway to his office, Kirkland beckons for him to come, and sits him down on the opposite side of the desk.

"But they are relevant to your performance at work," he says smugly. "I'm just looking out for you, Kristian. You and I both know that Andersen isn't the commitment type. I don't want my best friend to get hurt."

"Best friend, my arse. And I'm not the commitment type, either, as you know full well. What goes on between Andersen and I is not going to affect anything other than how much time I spend at his."

"You're the emotional type, though. And so is he. And you click. So here's my hypothesis: you'll enjoy hooking up, you'll connect on an emotional level because underneath the _I'm such a cold, withdrawn genius who can't connect with others because of my messed up parents_ shell that you wear, you're as much of a sap as Edelstein. Then you'll both freak out because you're scared of commitment and you realise that what you have might actually be a serious, healthy relationship and you're far too self-destructive for that, and then you'll end up with a broken heart and my best doctor will be pretty much useless."

Kristian gives him a long, hard stare. "Are you quite finished, Arthur?"

Kirkland grins. "I am indeed. You're welcome!" he says as Kristian stalks out of his office.

* * *

"It's a tumour," Edelstein reports. "He'll need a liver transplant."

"He should be eligible, he's otherwise healthy. Have you informed Oxenstierna?"

"Not yet," Kristian answers, flicking through his notes. "I'm not happy with the diagnosis."

Every head in the room turns to look at him.

Kristian shrugs. "I know it was my diagnosis, but — I'm missing something. I'm going to see the patient."

"The tumour explains everything!" Edelstein cries as Kristian gets up. "The vomiting blood, the liver failure, you were right. The longer we wait, the higher the risk of a transplant and the less time we have to find a donor."

"No, he might actually be right again," says Héderváry, staring at the papers. "The patient had a hematoma last year, and reports bruising easily. Sounds like a Vitamin K deficiency. If we perform surgery on him now, he'll bleed out."

"The hematoma was to be expected after a major knee surgery and the patient plays rugby. I'd be worried if he wasn't bruised. A Vitamin K deficiency would mean he'd have to be severely malnourished, which he's not, or have some kind of malabsorption, which he doesn't," argues Zwingli.

Kirkland claps his hands. "I agree with Zwedelstein, but we don't want to kill the poor guy. Oxenstierna would give us a hell of a lot of paperwork. Héderváry and Lover Boy, take a blood sample and check for signs of celiac disease."

"I think it's Wilson's," says Kristian, still not looking up from his notes.

"It's not Wilson's, the patient has no relative with the condition and it would've started presenting before now. Besides, no neurological symptoms," says Kirkland. "Vitamin K is a stretch, but Wilson's is implausible. Get some sleep, Thomassen."

Kristian finally looks up from his notes, only to glare at Kirkland. "I'll take a blood sample. But I still think it's Wilson's. The patient is free of toxins, no HBV of HCV, no diabetes, yet he has an unexplainable tumour. Wilson's explains it."

"That's barely anything to conclude Wilson's from," says Zwingli. "The patient has no neurological symptoms, no psychiatric symptoms. It's HCC, he needs a transplant, just make sure he not going to bleed out during the surgery."

Kristian looks to Kirkland for backup, but Kirkland simply raises an eyebrow. "Fine," he says. "Let's do the blood test."

* * *

Dr. Andersen is in the cafeteria at two, just as he said he'd be. Kristian slides into the seat opposite him, and steals a chip off his plate.

"Good afternoon," says Andersen, smiling. "You look tired."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Hey, I never intended to sleep over. Do you think Emil noticed?"

"I think my brother would have to be an idiot to miss such a conspicuous guest at breakfast."

Andersen laughs. "You know what I mean."

"Mm, probably. If I have to put up with his boyfriend practically living with us, though, I'm sure he can handle you."

"How generous," Andersen winks. "Are you planning on buying your own lunch, or are you just going to steal mine?"

"I don't fancy anything on the menu," says Kristian, and then when he sees Andersen's face, "and you can stop the poor euphemisms. That one was a stretch. I can't be bothered to spend five pound on something I'm only going to eat half of. And stealing your food is fun. Can I get a second opinion?"

"And there I thought you were only interested in my looks. What do you have to ask of St. Thomas' best oncologist?"

"Don't be an arse, Kirkland disagrees with me on a case. HCC in a thirty-five-year-old male with no history of alcoholism, no toxins, no hepatitis and no diabetes, generally good health. Had a hematoma after a knee surgery last year and bruises easily, although he is a rugby player, which Edelstein is using as a basis to ignore the bruising."

"Liver cancer doesn't always have a determinable cause, you know."

"I know. But I think this is Wilson's."

"No neurological symptoms? Vitamin K deficiency would account for the hematoma and the bruising. Have you checked for that?"

"Héderváry is analysing the blood sample as we speak. There's no reason for him to have a vitamin K deficiency, though."

"Wilson's is a stretch. But you know that. It would increase the chance of HCC. If you truly believe it's Wilson's, biopsy his liver, but if it is just vitamin K, it's risky."

"I know," Kristian sighs. "I'm sure I'm right."

Andersen grins. "You probably are, then. Kirkland may be the best doctor here, but he's been wrong plenty of times. Trust your instinct."

Kristian nods. "Yeah. I will. Thank you, Søren."

"No problem, Kristian. Is Emil home tonight?"

"I think so, but he knows now, so it doesn't matter."

"I like those words," says Søren, leaving up to kiss Kristian on the cheek as he leaves. "See you later, then."

"See you," Kristian says, and lets a small smile show as he smooths his collar and walks away.

* * *

"No vitamin K deficiency," says Héderváry as he walks into the lab. "Low iron, though his file said that he was—"

"—presenting with fatigue about a year ago, and six months of iron supplements cleared it up. Thanks for running the sample, though." Kristian sighs. "I'm going to biopsy the liver."

Héderváry looks up from the test she's running to give him an incredulous look. "It's not Wilson's."

"What, because Kirkland and Zwingli say it's not Wilson's? Zwingli doesn't actually care about the patient, and Kirkland just doesn't _want_ it to be Wilson's because that would mean he's missed something and he's the most fucking stubborn of us all. The patient has an unexplained tumour and haemolytic anaemia. It's Wilson's, and I'll prove it, and then I'll save a fucking life."

Kristian is tired of being undermined by less qualified doctors, less concerned doctors, less invested doctors. He takes a deep breath — he can feel his angrily elevated pulse, so closes his eyes, exhales and calms himself.

"Alright, do the biopsy. I don't agree with your diagnosis, but I trust your medical knowledge. I'll help you."

He bites back a bitter _I don't need your help_ , and pulls on the white coat he ditched for lunch. The two walk to the lift in silence, until Héderváry breaks it with a—

"Why do you care so much?"

"What, you don't care about the patient?"

She rolls her eyes at him. "You're putting more of yourself into this than usual. Did Andersen's oncology-esque empathy rub off on you — or in you — or something?"

"Can we please keep my sex life out of this?"

"Stop deflecting."

"Fine," says Kristian, hammering the floor number into the keypad. "My little brother died because of a misdiagnosis."

Héderváry narrows bright green eyes at him. "Emil is alive and well, I saw him about two weeks ago when he came in to collect a refill for his inhaler."

"Maybe I had another brother. Why do you want to know?"

"You know, I know that Kirkland has five brothers of varying ages, only one of whom shares his father. I know that on Christmas Day they all congregate at his mother's house in Richmond-upon-Thames, along with all the fathers and aunts and uncles and cousins and it's all a bit messy. I know that Edelstein actually studied music before he decided that the piano was just a hobby and went to med school, and that when Zwingli tries to give him tea instead of a black coffee in the morning, he throws a tantrum. I know that Zwingli detests black coffee and drinks a glass of milk every morning, before going for a five-mile run and then waking Edelstein at six. But you, Thomassen? I know you have a seventeen-year-old brother, and I know it's just the two of you and occasionally some muscular man in your bed, and I know you were top of your class at Cambridge and I know you still don't have a British passport." She pauses for breath, now looking him straight in the eye. "But I don't _know_ you, Thomassen. I don't have a fucking clue why your brother is ten years younger than you, or why he's not living with your parents, or even how you take your fucking coffee or whatever got you through med school. Edelstein is _aloof_ and Zwingli is _private_ , but you're just closed off."

"And maybe I intend to keep it that way," says Kristian, grabbing a biopsy kit as they walk into the patient's room. "Bupropion. That's what got me through med school."

As Héderváry stares at him, a small part of Kristian shrivels and dies with his confession. In all honesty, though, he's surprised the rest of the team didn't know — he's sure Oxenstierna _must_ know that one of his best doctors relies on an antidepressant just to function, but then again their employer holds professionalism in greater esteem than anything else. And Kirkland is far more messy than he is. Kristian is pretty grateful for that.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Reeder. How do you feel today?"

The patient grunts in reply to Kristian's questioning, while Héderváry continues to examine the wrong man in the room. It's only as he's checking the IVs, preparing the biopsy needle, anaesthetising the area, that he realises something is off. The patient is far less verbally responsive to Kristian than the last time he checked up on him — then again, Kristian isn't exactly a _people person_ and the patient is slowly dying, so it's hardly groundbreaking.

"Dr. Héderváry, could you talk to Mr. Reeder and make sure he's not having an adverse response to the biopsy?"

Héderváry agrees and finally focuses her attention on the patient instead of him. Kristian makes sure the area is properly anaesthetised, before picking up his scalpel to make the incision.

" _Stop—_ " chokes Héderváry, and for a moment, Kristian worries that he's wrong, that the patient is suddenly bleeding to death because he hasn't caught the haemolytic anaemia soon enough and it's _all his fault_. And then he looks up—

" _Security!_ " he yells, dropping the scalpel and pulling the patient's hands from around Héderváry's neck. She's choking, gasping for breath as she stumbles away. But the patient is turning on him now, and it's all he can do to try and force his arms down, away from his neck and this guy is _strong_ , a rugby player, and Kristian is doing his best to push him away but his priority is just getting Héderváry out of there so when he pushes the patient against the wall and Héderváry out of the door, he can't stop the patient from picking up the scalpel he dropped. And suddenly the blade is pressing against his throat, and he's backing away, and then — _finally_ — security are there, restraining the patient, sedating the patient.

But everything is too bright, and everything is too loud, and Kristian realises he _hurts_ — and then Héderváry is screaming again. There's a scalpel in his chest. He can't breathe. There's a scalpel in his chest.

"I — told you it w-was Wilson's."

Kristian coughs, splutters, and falls.

* * *

"The pacemaker isn't functioning properly, his heart rhythm is too irregular. We can't operate yet. He can't take it."

"What, so you're going to let him die? You're just going to give up on him?"

"Andersen, his heart has already stopped once. I've aspirated as much of the fluid as possible, but I can't do anything more until his pulse is more regular."

"It's not going to _be_ more regular until you _solve it_! Repairing the pericardium will—"

"—risk fucking his heart up further. You think surgery on a patient with this much tissue damage is a good idea?"

"I think trying to repair the damage that wasn't already there is a good idea."

"I literally _cannot_ do that. Look, you're not the only one who cares about Thomassen—"

"—no, you're quite right, Zwingli, better make sure you tell his seventeen-year-old brother you're sorry you killed him—"

"—and _I'm_ the cardiologist here."

"Just fucking _do_ something, okay?"

"I'm trying my best, Andersen."

* * *

Emil is asleep in the chair beside him when he wakes. From the creased clothes and messy hair, Kristian assumes it's been a couple of days.

"Kirkland," he calls hoarsely, pulling off the oxygen mask and quickly realising that there isn't a part of him that doesn't hurt like hell. Everything is an effort. "Kirkland, I know you're there."

"I'm afraid you'll have to deal with me instead," says Zwingli, opening the curtains around his bed. "Kirkland's been mysteriously absent since you were stabbed."

Kristian frowns. "Why?"

"How should I know? Don't move, you'll damage your stitches, and put that mask back on. The stab wound caused you to go into cardiogenic shock, so we gave you dobutamine, but the shock caused pericardial tamponade. I drained the fluid, but later had to remove the part of the pericardium as it was restricting the heart's function."

Zwingli doesn't look at him for the entire duration of his explanation. Kristian is tired, hurting and he _knows_ what Zwingli is about to say.

"Just _say_ it."

"I've put you on the transplant list, but your heart is just too damaged to last. I'm sorry, Thomassen." Zwingli, usually so apathetic, shows him some kind of sadness, some kind of sympathy. Dying changes everything, after all. "Without a transplant, I'd say you have five years to a decade before it gives out."

The words don't really process with Kristian, so he just nods and thanks Zwingli, who leaves pretty quickly. It's not like he wasn't expecting it. At the same time, he wasn't _really_ expecting it — there was some part of him that had managed to ignore six years of medical school, and had convinced him that it would be okay, there wouldn't be any real long term effects. He supposes that _really_ , he should be grateful: at the very least, he can still take care of Emil, and probably see him through university. It's only twenty years fewer than he was betting on.

But Emil _can't_ know.

Some time after Zwingli leaves, Emil stirs and wakes and leaps up when he sees Kristian is awake. Kristian hugs him, wordlessly, even though his body is screaming at him not to move; his brother sobs quietly into his chest.

"I thought you were _dead_ , Kristian."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"It was like when we were younger again."

"I know, Emil. I'm alright now, though."

"Don't you dare do that again."

"I won't."

Kristian strokes his younger brother's hair softly, gently. He _can't_ know. It would destroy him.

* * *

"It wasn't your brother, it was you."

Kristian is barely awake, and Héderváry's words don't make a lot of sense.

"What?"

"You said your brother died, but it was you. I knew Emil was your only brother. You were misdiagnosed and then you nearly died, and so now you're scared that you'll fuck someone else up in the same way. What happened?"

Kristian rubs his eyes with a heavy hand. "The patient stabbed me. Psychotic break. Wilson's. I was right. Has Andersen spoken to you? Or Kirkland?"

"You were stabbed and all you have to say is that you were right?" Héderváry says in disbelief.

He shrugs. "It was my fault, I brought a scalpel into a room with a patient who I knew could display neurological symptoms. I'm sorry you were caught up in it."

"I wasn't hurt," she says. "Have a little more concern for yourself."

"I'll live. In hindsight, I should've checked neurological function first."

"You'll _live_? Thomassen, you were _stabbed—_ "

" _Kristian!_ " Søren chooses the optimum time to fling open the curtains around his bed and rush to his side. "Kristian, I'm so sorry I wasn't here when you woke up, I was in a meeting but oh my _god,_ I'm so glad you're awake, I was _so_ worried, how _are_ you?"

Kristian smiles. "I'm fine, Søren," he says, leaning up to kiss him. As Kirkland opens his mouth to disagree, the tension melts away from Søren's face and is replaced with relief, and Kirkland appropriately decides to shut up.

"Don't ever do that to me again, okay?" he says, gently kissing him back. "And the next time I tell you to trust your instinct, ignore me."

"This isn't your fault," Kristian says. "I hope you know that."

"It's nobody's fault," says Héderváry. "But everyone thinks it's theirs."

Kristian looks up at that. "They do?"

"Newsflash, Thomassen; people other than your brother and your boy-toy care about you," says Héderváry.

"That's completely unrelated to the fact that a patient suffering from a psychotic break lost control and injured me."

"Kristian, baby. A terrible thing happened, people are _going_ to blame themselves."

Kristian sighs. "Where's my brother?"

"I told him to get some food, I'm sure he hasn't eaten in hours," Søren says, and his sympathetic look suddenly turns serious. "Dr. Héderváry told me what you said about your brother — or you, rather — being misdiagnosed. What happened?"

Kristian doesn't really want to have this conversation. Rather, he doesn't really want to have this conversation with Héderváry in the room — Søren _knowing things_ about him, he can deal with. His coworkers, however? Less so.

"I had sarcoidosis when I was eighteen," he begins reluctantly. "And obviously, it wasn't anyone's first thought, because I didn't have any kind of skin symptoms. I saw a doctor because my heart rhythm was off, and was sent away with severe anxiety as a diagnosis. Meanwhile, the sarcoidosis fucked up my heart, I collapsed, developed atrial fibrillation and was readmitted. They thought it was myocarditis. The sarcoidosis had actually caused third-degree heart block, not helped by the anxiety meds I was taking, and eventually my heart was unstable and I went into cardiac arrest, and that's when someone put two and two together and finally got sarcoidosis. By that point, my heart tissue was severely damaged, I needed a pacemaker and my lifespan was considerably shortened."

Héderváry raises an eyebrow. "That's a colossal fuckup."

Søren looks crestfallen, and takes Kristian's hand. "That's awful, Kristian. I can see why you'd be so passionate about getting the right diagnosis."

He shrugs. "I don't want someone else to suffer for my mistakes as I suffered for theirs. I nearly had to drop out of med school because of the time I missed."

"That's why Zwingli had so much trouble repairing the stab wound, then," says Héderváry. "He wouldn't tell us what was on your file. Wipe away your oncologist tears, Andersen, you're going to have to be a bit stronger if you're going to look after Thomassen and his broken heart."

That certainly wasn't part of the plan. "I didn't agree to that."

"What, you don't want to go home?"

"I can look after myself, Héderváry—"

"Zwingli says you can't. Emil has school, and Andersen is eager to stay with you for a while."

"I already checked that it's okay with Emil," adds Søren.

Kristian closes his eyes. "Fine. But you'll have to learn how to use your indoor voice. And if this is out of guilt, you're sleeping on the floor."

"It's out of love," says Søren, and Héderváry makes a small noise of disgust.

* * *

"It's lupus," says Kristian.

Kirkland doesn't look him in the eye. "You know I'm not here for a patient, Kristian."

"I'm guessing Zwingli told you."

"He did. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"Kristian," Kirkland says, sitting down in the chair next to his bed, "you're _my_ responsibility. By discounting the possibility of Wilson's, I made you carry out a biopsy on a patient with potential neurological symptoms without a proper team. This is my fault."

"I've heard enough of this from Søren and Hédeváry. Is this why you were avoiding me?"

Kristian should probably be more annoyed at Kirkland for bringing in this pity party. It's more pathetic than anything else, though; he almost feels sorry for him. Nevertheless, he'd had enough of the blame game as soon as Søren started on it.

Kirkland shrugs, almost imperceptibly, still looking more at the floor than at Kristian. "That and the fact that my best friend is dying."

Kristian really does feel sorry for him now — ironically. "I've got a few more years in me yet."

"But if I'd been there—"

"—you might've taken a scalpel to the chest instead? Very reassuring. Stop blaming yourself, for Christ's sake. I don't want you here if you're just going to be full of lament and sorrow. You haven't even asked how I'm feeling."

Kirkland finally makes eye contact, trying for a smile. "I'm sorry. How are you feeling?"

"Not too great, actually, I was stabbed in the chest. How are you?"

"Not that great either, my best friend was stabbed in the chest."

"Zwingli says you disappeared for a few days."

"I went home." Kirkland pauses, and amends his sentence, "I went home — to my family."

"I thought I was the one who nearly died." Kristian wonders for a second whether he should specify that he's teasing, but then thinks of his lingering, petty resentment towards Kirkland for showing up a week late, and decides to leave it.

"I needed to think some things through. I'm sorry — you know how it is, I couldn't face it — I lay in my childhood bedroom for a good three days. Just thinking."

Kristian knows the feeling all too well. "I get it."

"When will you be discharged?"

"Zwingli doesn't really want to let me out of his sight, but I should be free to go soon. Søren's going to stay over foe a while, though. To make sure my heart doesn't decide to pack it in ten years early, or something."

"An oncologist, taking care of a genius intensivist."

"I trust him more than I'd trust you."

"Probably wise, we have Zwingli for a reason. A neurologist may not be your answer, I'm afraid."

Kristian laughs softly. "I might actually be better off with Edelstein."

Kirkland feigns being highly offended. "No one is better off with Edelstein. Why do we even have a nephrologist? Why did I offer him the job?"

"Zwingli would be even more insufferable without him," says Kristian. "Imagine, all the fussing he directs towards Edelstein would be directed towards us. Absolute hell."

"It's hell enough without you. Hédeváry is wallowing instead of keeping Zwedelstein under control, and Oxenstierna is checking in every five minutes to make sure we're filing all the necessary reports for the incident and that everyone is doing well. I can't really tell the difference between being here and being back with my family."

Guilt stabs at Kristian. "Arthur, I'm — I'm not coming back."

Arthur looks blankly at him. "You mean, you're transferring? Why? What will we do without you?"

"No, I mean — I'm leaving. I'm leaving St. Thomas'. I'm going to take a couple of months off while I recover and while Emil finishes school, but then we're going back to Norway."

"But — _why_? If this is about security, I can have it all changed, or work hours, I can shorten them, or—"

Kristian shakes his head. "I can't come back. I've had enough, Arthur, I'm sorry. I might go back to practising medicine in Norway, but I need a break from it. It's been nine years since I had sarcoidosis, and all I've done since then is work continuously. Emil hasn't seen our parents since he left when he was twelve."

"So you're just going to do — what? What's Emil going to do? Isn't he going to university?"

"He wants to go to university in Stockholm. Great fine arts course there. I figure if we live in Oslo, it's a lot easier for him to just come home if he needs to."

"Does he know?"

"I've run the idea past him. He seems alright about it."

Arthur closes his eyes and rubs at them. "So you're just — going back to Norway. That's it."

"Look, Arthur, I know it's selfish, I know you'd rather I stay in England, I know Søren would rather I stay in England. But I need to get out of this country. I'm sorry. I might come back, but I just need to be somewhere else."

"It'll break Andersen."

Kristian raises an eyebrow. "He's in touch with his emotions, he's not an emotional mess. There is a difference. Søren goes back to Odense every month, anyway. Oslo's not that far."

"And me? Will I ever see you again?"

"Of course you will. I'll come back, I just — I need an out."

"And being stabbed was an out?"

"Being stabbed is why I need an out. I have maybe ten years left, Arthur. That's twenty fewer than I had two weeks ago. Emil and I might've left our parents for the better, but I'm still their _son_."

"I can't convince you to come back?"

Kristian smiles sadly. "No. I'm sorry, Arthur."

Arthur stares into space, distracted. "You nearly died for a patient, and yet you're giving up medicine. I don't understand. How can you do it?"

"I have to do it."

"No, you don't. You don't have to sever nearly ten years' worth of connections for some kind of arbitrary sense of closure. Why are you _really_ doing it, Kristian?"

"I told you, I—"

"No," says Arthur, standing up, raising his voice. "No, you didn't really say anything, just some bullshit about _needing_ to leave. You _needed_ to leave Norway, what's changed now?"

"Everything's changed, Arthur, I'm _dying_. My heart's giving out. I'm only twenty-seven, why can't you just understand that I need to get away and _live_?"

"You were always dying, Kristian! When I first met you, I met you because you were dying, because you were young and full of life and anger and shouting at the doctors who had wronged you! Nine years later, you're stabbed by a patient and all you care about is the fact that you got the right diagnosis! What happened, Kristian? What changed, what snuffed the spark out of you?"

"Nothing _changed_ , Arthur, I grew up! I accepted my fate and made sure it wouldn't happen to anyone else if I could prevent it!" Kristian takes a deep breath, heart pounding from the strain of shouting. "I've always had less time to live my life than you have, and now I have even less — what business is it of yours what I do with it? Who are you to tell me how to spend my remaining time?"

"You won't be able to do it, you know. You _can't_ — _you_ can't — just walk away from medicine, _especially_ because you've got less time. You'll come back, mark my word."

Kristian shakes his head. "Get out, Kirkland."

Arthur storms out, curtain swishing behind him.

* * *

Kristian wakes to the sweet smell of pancakes and fruit. Even sweeter is the creamy-skinned, shirtless man offering him a plate. Through the doorway, he can see Emil already eating before he runs to school. He leans up to kiss Søren, and smiles.

"Good morning, darling."

"Good morning, my love. How do you feel today?"

"Mm… Rough, but not too rough. Would you like to go somewhere?"

Søren's eyes light up. "Kristian, I would _love_ to. Are you sure you're up to it?"

"I think so. If I start feeling awful, I've always got St. Thomas' best oncologist with me."

Søren grins. "There's an exhibition I'd like to see at the V&A, it's on fifteenth-century Italian sculpture. You interested?"

"Of course," says Kristian, carefully buttoning up a shirt over the dressing on his chest. "We could go to Carluccio's afterwards."

"That sounds wonderful," says Søren, pressing kisses to Kristian's neck and chest as he tries to get dressed. "God, I'm going to miss you."

"I'm going to miss you too," Kristian says, returning a few of the kisses, tracing Søren's freckles with his lips.

Emil yells a goodbye as he slams the door behind him, and Kristian runs his hands through his hair, trying to push down the odd curls.

"Leave them," says Søren, flicking one. "They're cute."

"They're weird," says Kristian, but leaves them anyway.

They take a taxi to the exhibition, and spend hours wandering through the long halls of art. When they leave, it's begun to rain, and Søren wraps his coat around Kristian and shields him from the raindrops. They run — or run as much as Kristian's lethargy allows — and dive into a taxi, laughing.

"Carluccio's, Covent Garden," says Søren, and Kristian buries into his chest. Søren is muscular, but not _too_ muscular, he decides — the perfect amount of muscle for Kristian.

"I love you, you know," he tells Søren's chest. Søren laughs.

"My muscles love you too, my love," he says. "And I love you the most."

* * *

It takes Kristian two months to make a properphysical recovery. He still has the chest pain — but he supposes that's just part of it now — and he's still too easily tired, but he's fine. Zwingli has given him the seal of approval that he would have given himself weeks ago, and now, with Emil having finished sixth form late last month, they stand in Heathrow waiting for their plane.

"We've sent all our luggage on," says Kristian to no one in particular, "and the house is clean and ready for tenants to move in, and I've set up a Swedish bank account for Emil and the purchase on the flat was finalised a month ago. I think I've done everything."

"You know, I miss you already," Leon, Emil's boyfriend, tells him.

"I miss you too," says Emil. "I'll be back. Just wait, I'll invade UCL."

"If I get in," says Leon.

"You'll get in," Emil and Søren say in unison. Kristian nods in agreement.

"I thought I'd failed my A-levels," says Søren. "All four of them. I was away when everyone collected their results, too. I had them sent to me back in Denmark, and when I got the letter from Karolinska telling me I'd got in, I actually cried."

"And he hasn't stopped being overly emotional since," says Kristian.

"Hey, oncologists need their empathy."

"I wouldn't want you telling me I have cancer," Emil tells Kristian.

"Good thing I'm not an oncologist, then. Neither intensive care nor diagnostics particularly require oncology-level emotion."

Søren shakes his head. "I know you're secretly empathetic, Kristian. You've got this hard shell, but inside you're warm and soft—"

"How disgusting," says Emil, to everyone else's amusement.

"We should tackle security, Emil, before everyone rushes there," Kristian says.

Emil nods, if dejectedly, and gives Leon a last hug and kiss goodbye. Søren pulls Kristian into a bear hug which Kristian leans into, and when they pull apart, both have tears sparkling in their eyes.

"Hold up, one sec," says Søren, and pulls two wrapped parcels out of his messenger bag. "The first is from Berwald, and the second is from Tino. They're for both of you — they're the sharing kinds of things."

"Thank them for us," says Kristian.

"And this is from me," says Søren, stealing a last kiss from Kristian, who smiles at it.

"I'll miss you, Søren."

"I'll miss you too, Kristian."

As Kristian and Emil force their way through security, Søren and Leon wave to them, and Emil pretends he isn't crying behind his fringe.

"Hey, you can come back to see him whenever you like, okay?" Kristian says. "If you need any money for a flight, just let me know."

"Thanks," says Emil. They walk to their gate in silence.

The flight passes uneventfully, and when they arrive in Oslo, it's a smooth transition — though Emil's Norwegian is rusty, at best. They spend a week settling in, indulging in Tino and Berwald's gifts of wine and good chocolate and unwinding. Norway seems less hectic than England, somehow — though perhaps the difference is just between London and Oslo.

They go to a ski resort in the glaciers in their third week there, although Zwingli doesn't hesitate to tell Kristian through Søren on FaceTime what an idiotic decision it is. Kristian takes it gently — after all, he wouldn't want to make Emil feel like the inferior skier.

It's as they're heading in, coming off Emil's new favourite blue run, that it happens. They're going steadily, taking in more of their surroundings than they were when they were racing down the slope, and it's as they're about to get the lift back that Emil cries out.

"Kristian — Kristian, _look_ — I think there's someone lying in the snow."

There's a dark lump in the snow some forty metres away from them. Kristian forewent his contacts this morning, so at first he's not entirely sure what he's skiing towards, but Emil's right — male, probably mid-thirties, lying on the snow.

"He could have hypothermia, if he's been here too long," says Kristian, releasing his boots from the skis and kneeling down to examine him. "Oh, _fuck."_

"What? — _Oh_ ," Emil says, as he sees what Kristian sees. The man's legs are tangled in his skis, fractured in awkward angles that make Kristian grimace.

"Call the ski rescue patrol number, and stick your skis in the snow so they can see us," Kristian says, checking his vitals. "No breathing, no pulse." He begins chest compressions, breathing air into the lungs. "Take off your jacket, put it over him." Kristian pulls off his own jacket, and carefully slides it under the man's torso, separating him from the cold snow.

"It can't be cold enough for hypothermia," Emil says, watching his brother.

"Depends — on how long — he's been here — and any pre-existing conditions," Kristian replies in between breaths. "Got a pulse, he's breathing but not conscious. Ski patrol?"

"Uh — they'll be here soon. Like?"

"Hypothyroidism, diabetes, Parkinson's — I'm guessing a spinal cord injury from the fall. Unless the fall came second, in which case possibly intoxication, maybe the hypothyroidism."

The ski patrol arrive and help Kristian get the skier off the hill and into an ambulance. At some point, he sheds a few more layers of skiwear, rolls up his sleeves and acquires a pad of paper that he fills with notes. When the man wakes up in excruciating pain, he's the first to question him, and the ski patrol fade into the background as Kristian naturally takes over.

"Mr. Solberg, can you tell me what happened when you crashed? — And was that before or after you fell? — _Morphine_ , get me one hundred milligrams of morphine, he's going to crash from the pain—"

When the patient is in surgery, Kristian is observing, and when he's stabilised, he's in the middle of the differential.

"The fall was an effect, not a cause," he says to the team of doctors in the small mountain town hospital. "Check for hypothyroidism, that would account for the hypothermia, but check for toxins, too."

Emil looks at him in amusement when he comes out of the hospital at six thirty-two, having diagnosed the patient with severe hypothyroidism.

"You can't escape it," he says.

"Can't escape what?"

"Medicine. You couldn't help yourself, you slid right back into it."

Kristian looks at him. "The patient may well have died even after recovering from the accident, had I not insisted on a breakdown and that they run the necessary tests. An underactive thyroid that goes untreated can lead to all sorts of complications."

"But it was you who took charge," says Emil. "You belong in a department like Kirkland's, where you're solving puzzles like that. That's the most fun you've had today, which says a lot considering we've been sliding down mountains."

"I had fun earlier," he protests.

"But not as much fun as when you were working. You know, the tenants in the Kensington house are due to move out in three months."

"Emil, I am not going back to London. I swore I would take a break."

"You can," says Emil. "Take these three months off before my term starts, then go back to St. Thomas'. You'll only be by yourself when I'm at uni, after all."

"I'm not doing it."

"But you want to."

"I _don't_. I'm tired of Kirkland's need to control everyone's every move, every thought. He didn't respect my wishes, and nor did he truly respect my opinion as a doctor. I was the best team member he had, but we were only there to support _him_ — when I decided to do that biopsy, I was _angry_ , because I _knew_ what was wrong, but no one was listening. Kirkland should've considered Wilson's. He should've been in the _room_ , for god's sake. He's a neurologist — if he'd sensed something was off, maybe none of this would've happened."

"Do you blame him, then?"

Kristian sighs, sits down on a bench and wraps his scarf back around his neck. "I don't blame anyone, Emil. I just want to have fun for a bit."

"We're having fun. But no one can give you the kind of satisfaction you get from solving puzzles. You switched instantly when you saw that guy in the snow. It came more naturally to you than anything else."

He looks down at his feet. "I did enjoy it. But I really can't go back, Emil."

Emil looks at him for a good minute, then shakes his head. "There's something else, isn't there?"

Kristian's chest tightens, in a way unrelated to any and all tissue damage. "No! I just can't go back to Kirkland."

"There _is_. You haven't been back to Oslo since med school, not even when you were in Trondheim for a conference. There's definitely something else."

"Emil, there's nothing—"

"Is it Søren?"

Kristian relaxes. "Søren? What about Søren?"

"Kristian, you've never had any kind of long-term relationship. You always broke it off before it got too serious. But you _love_ Søren — don't shake your head, I'm your brother, I can tell — and you don't want to break it off or worse, ruin it with all your commitment issues. But you _can't_ solve that by running away."

"I'm not — I'm not trying to run away." Kristian feels personally attacked by Emil's words — he didn't expect them to ring quite so true. "Søren and I are maintaining our relationship well, despite the distance."

Emil raises his eyebrows. "Sure. Skype calls are definitely a good way to maintain a healthy, adult relationship. You _miss_ him, Kristian. You had something really fucking good before we came here."

"And so what if I don't want my lasting memories of that to be me fucking it up?"

"Why do you assume you'll fuck it up?"

"Well, I — since when were you my therapist?"

Emil rolls his eyes. "Stop _deflecting_ , for Christ's sake. I promise you, if you go back to London and go back to Kirkland and Søren, you'll be infinitely happier."

"I'm happy now, with you."

"I'm going to Stockholm in three months."

"I don't even know if I _want_ to go back to Kensington and live in that house without you."

"Then move in with Søren."

"Now, that _is_ a ridiculous idea," Kristian laughs.

"I mean it! If I could move in with Leon, I'd do it in a moment, but I know we can stand the distance. You and Søren have only been more than a one-night stand for a couple of months. If you lived together, every day would be like that day when I got home and you two were eating macarons together on the sofa while watching _Gatsby_. Go back to England, Kristian."

Kristian shakes his head. "I'll think about it. Let's go home, Emil."

Emil smiles. "You say that as if you don't mean it, but you'll go back."

* * *

It's September, and there's a definite chill in the air as Kristian steps outside. The scarf he wraps around his neck is softer than his own, thicker than his own, and he happily breathes in the scent.

"How does everything I own look better on you?" Søren asks, smiling. "I think this may just be the sweetest thing I've ever seen."

"I'll tell the cat that," says Kristian, and Søren gives him a look of betrayal.

"You wouldn't. She'd never speak to me again!"

"Cats don't actually — never mind."

Søren is the one to drive them to work today. They've agreed to split it — left up to Søren, he'd drive them every day, but that suggestion earned him an impressively cold glare. They keep teasing each other for the entire duration of the journey, and they're both laughing by the time they get to St. Thomas'.

"How's Emil settling in?" Søren asks as they clock in.

"He's been out every night this week, I've received a lot of drunken snaps. But he's making friends, which is good. He was pretty worried about that."

"Yeah, I get that. Freshers is the time to do it, though. Sounds like he's doing it right."

"As long as he drinks responsibly after Freshers, I'm not worried about him."

They stand in the entrance, _Oncology_ pointing in one direction and _Diagnostics_ pointing in another.

"I'll see you later, then," says Kristian.

"Yeah," says Søren, "take care, okay?"

"I will, don't worry."

It's actually Edelstein who greets him first — Kristian supposes the others all got in earlier, Edelstein was never the most punctual — in the locker room as he's slipping off his jacket and slipping on his coat.

"It's good to see you," says Edelstein. "We missed you."

"I missed it too," says Kristian. "It's — it's good to be back."

Zwingli takes him aside as soon as he sees him, and examines his well-healed stitches. "I haven't told anyone," he says quietly. "It's only Kirkland that knows."

"Keep it that way," says Kristian. "I don't want Emil or Søren to know, and certainly not from someone else. And I don't want a pity party."

Zwingli nods briskly, letting Kristian go as Kirkland takes his place at the head of the conference table and Hédeváry beams at him.

"Our prodigal son has returned," says Kirkland, throwing five copies of a patient file on the table. "It's good to have you back, Thomassen. Now — how about lupus?"


	2. cliffhanging

**CLIFFHANGING**

"Forgive me, father, for I have sinned."

There's a long pause.

"Take your time. How long has it been since your last confession?"

Vasch doesn't reply to his question. "I have killed a man."

The priest is silent for what seems like an eternity. "You took another's life?"

"I handed my colleague a death sentence. I'm a doctor. I couldn't save my friend."

"Did you do all that was in your power to do so?"

"Yes. But it wasn't enough. He has a lover, and a brother he is a father to. I couldn't repair the damage to his heart that will one day kill him."

"If you did all that you could, your only sin is unfounded guilt. There's no penance for that."

Vasch laughs bitterly. "My only sin is letting my friend die."

"My son, life takes its own course, as does death. If you are looking for forgiveness, the Lord has nothing to forgive you for."

"That's not how it feels."

"Your friend doesn't resent you, either," says the priest. "Rest, my son. It's been a while since you've been to confession, hasn't it? Your thoughts are muddled. Go in peace, and may God bless you."

—

Roderich is playing the piano when he walks in, a dramatic piece that just about fits Vasch's mood.

"Beethoven?" he guesses wildly, kissing his soft, dark hair.

"Brahms," says Roderich, letting his fingers fall still on the keys and turning to face Vasch. "I missed you this morning."

"Sorry, I went for a bit of a stroll after my run," says Vasch. "Wanted to check the dates on an exhibition at the Imperial War Museum. Have you had breakfast?"

"I tried to make French toast, but it didn't go very well. Do you want to go to the patisserie on the corner?"

"Sure," says Vasch. "Let me change quickly and I'll be with you."

"Okay," says Roderich, turning back to the piano.

It's _killing_ Vasch not to tell him. He knows that Roderich cares enough about Thomassen to want to support him, and he knows that he cares enough about Vasch to be ready to share some of the weight that comes with telling a colleague — a _friend_ that they're going to die. Ten years is a long time, Thomassen told him. In ten years, Vasch hopes to maybe have paid off his student loan and to actually be able to finally buy a house in London instead of renting. In ten years, Thomassen will be dead.

Vasch can't even guarantee that Thomassen will be able to see his younger brother settle down. Vasch can't even guarantee that Thomassen himself will settle down.

And then there's Andersen. Andersen has a _right_ to know. Andersen _needs_ to know that the man he loves won't make it to forty, that they won't grow old together, that they'll never be able make future plans together as he does with Roderich — no children, no grandchildren, no retiring to a little house in a quiet village outside of Bern.

But Vasch can't tell him, because Thomassen is an insufferable arse and Vasch can't _abide_ his selfish desire to let his death be a shock to the people who care about him, and Vasch _knows_ that Thomassen's dying is on _him_.

What kind of doctor is he if he can't save his patient? What kind of man is he if he can't save his friend?

"Vasch, are you okay?" asks Roderich, and Vasch realises that he's been standing in their bedroom staring vacantly at his wardrobe for the last ten minutes.

"Euh — yeah. Yes. Indecisive. Brown chinos with a white shirt, or green chinos with a blue shirt?"

Roderich looks him up and down. "Mmm — why don't you go for charcoal with a white shirt? That way, you can wear those nice suspenders without them clashing. And your coat will set it off, too."

"I'll be wearing fifty shades of grey, though."

"Darling," says Roderich, adjusting his glasses, "with all due respect, I'm not sure I can think of anything more fitting for you."

Well, Vasch can't argue with that.

—

Vasch pushes himself for a six-mile run before work today. He gets in at six-fifteen, feels guilty about being late to wake up Roderich with his black coffee but can _feel_ the extra mile in his veins, feels the sheer _exhilaration_ of the challenge.

"Vasch," Roderich says sleepily, blinking in the morning light as he hands him his coffee. "I love you."

"Good morning, sleepyhead. I love you too."

His phone rings then, loud and blaring and Roderich flinches at the noise. It's Beilschmidt, head of cardiology — Vasch's version of Roderich's escapism into music.

"Sorry, Roderich," he says. "I'll take it outside, take your time."

Roderich nods, sipping his coffee, still in a sleepy haze. He's not much of a morning person.

"Zwingli, we need you," says Beilschmidt. "I've got a patient who inexplicably went into cardiac arrest around eleven hours ago, otherwise healthy. Male, twenty-five, normal left ventricular function, coronary arteries look fine. Can't treat until we have a diagnosis, no idea how much time we have here."

"Anaphylaxis?" Vasch suggests, watching Roderich dress through the window on their balcony. "I'll be in in five."

Roderich yawns, cat-like, and fumbles tying his tie.

"I'm so sorry, Roderich, I've been called in. Cardiology need an extra hand, apparently."

"Mmm, don't worry. I'll see you later, then?"

"Indeed you will. Try not to forget to eat breakfast, there's some yoghurt and some fruit in the fridge."

"Good luck," Roderich calls after him as he pulls a coat on and shuts their front door behind him.

Beilschmidt is up to his eyes in files when Vasch enters his office. Vasch can understand why he was called in. He _really_ doesn't miss the paperwork of being a regular cardiologist.

"Patient's in ward five," says Beilschmidt, not looking up from his desk. "File's on the chair. I'll discuss with you once I've finished this set of papers."

Vasch takes the file, thanks him and heads to the ward as he reads it. Guillaume Schauss, born nineteen-ninety-two, in Bastogne, Belgium. CPR administered immediately by a doctor in the area; returned to normal heart rhythm soon after defibrillation. No previous cardiac distress, no family history of early-onset heart disease, no known allergies, exercises regularly and follows a 'plant-based' diet.

"Mr Schauss," he greets the patient, who is sitting upright in his bed, reading. "I'm Dr. Zwingli, one of the cardiologists here."

The patient looks up and smiles sweetly at him. "Hi. I take it I'm not being discharged yet?"

"I'm afraid not. It was fortunate you were in such a public place when you went into cardiac arrest; we can't risk it happening again somewhere less safe."

"It couldn't have been worse timing, really, I was just about to go into the opera," the patient says with a grin. "I was really looking forward to that."

"If it was at the National Theatre, you weren't missing much," says Vasch. "My colleague went to see it and regretted it, said it made him long for a good Italian one."

The patient laughs. "That does make me feel a bit better. I'll just have to go to the Royal Opera House when I'm out."

"I've been to a couple there, they're always good. Have you noticed any chest pain recently?"

"I'll look forward to that, then. No, nothing. I had some chest pain last year, but my therapist said it was stress and anxiety-related."

"Your therapist was probably right. Are you generally under a lot of strain, then?"

"Quite a bit. At the time, my company was going through some difficulties — I'm the head of the family business, you see."

"At twenty-five? Impressive."

The patient smiles, almost wistfully. "My parents retired early to the Côte d'Azur, and neither of my siblings were really interested in it. My brother is an art lecturer in the Netherlands, you see, and my sister has a little tearoom-bookshop sort of thing back in Belgium. Someone had to carry on the business."

Young, ambitious to a fault, precociously successful, family-oriented. It's not Thomassen but — by _god_ , it could be. Schauss even has the same rich-boy shiny blonde hair. Of course, he's a damn sight nicer than Thomassen, far less bitter and generally less insufferable. But still, Vasch has to mentally shake himself to get rid of the vision of his colleague bleeding out on the floor.

"Well, it's highly unlikely that stress alone would have caused the arrest, but you shouldn't push yourself. Are you taking any antidepressants?"

"None. I'm only seeing the therapist because my sister was worried about me."

Vasch can understand why. "Are you taking any medications not listed in your file?"

The patient shakes his head. "I don't get sick very easily."

"Okay," says Vasch. "I'm going to refer you for an echocardiogram and an exercise test, since I can't see any abnormalities while resting. In the meantime, if you get any — and I mean _any_ — other kinds of symptoms, notify someone."

"You're dedicated," says the patient.

Vasch tries not to flinch. "I've seen the consequences of a misdiagnosis," he says, and immediately regrets it. "Not that the situations are really comparable, of course — I mean — I'm a doctor, I'm meant to be dedicated."

The patient looks amused by his floundering. "Right."

—

"You know, we don't usually get other people to do our tests for us in Cardiology," says Beilschmidt, looking over his request for an echocardiogram and a stress test. "I'm not sure how Kirkland runs things, though."

"We've started looking for a second opinion on things after Thomassen was stabbed," Vasch replies.

Beilschmidt raises his eyebrows. "You're worried our patient will deteriorate straight from cardiac arrest to a psychotic break?"

"We should always exercise caution, Beilschmidt."

"So this doesn't have anything to do with any personal feelings of yours?"

"My objectivity has not been affected, no."

Beilschmidt obviously doesn't believe him, but accepts it anyway. "Fine, I'll get Bonnefois to run the test, and I'll let you know when we have the results."

"I appreciate it."

Vasch is sure Beilschmidt is putting two and two together, even if he only has half the story. He doesn't care, though. He just needs to get out of there, and for once he welcomes the file that Kirkland throws at him.

"We missed you this morning," says Kirkland. "Edelstein was positively distraught."

"I was _not_ ," say Roderich.

"Sounds like leukaemia," Vasch says, ignoring Kirkland.

"It's not," says Thomassen. "Bloodwork is fine, marrow biopsy is fine."

"Gonorrhoea?"

"Zwingli, the patient is _ten_ ," says Héderváry. "Are you alright? You seem—"

"I'm fine," Vasch says quickly, before Héderváry can finish the sentence with _shaken_ or _off_ and worry Roderich. "Beilschmidt's got me on another case, I suppose my mind is preoccupied."

"A thrilling tale," says Kirkland. "Thomassen, check the patient for tick bites, this could be Lyme disease. And take Zwingli with you, he's no use to us here."

Thomassen raises an eyebrow but gets up anyway, holding the door open for Vasch. Neither speaks as they walk to the patient's room, and Thomassen barely acknowledges him as he examines the patient.

"Do you play outside frequently? In the woods, for example?" he asks, and the boy shakes his head.

"This is London, Thomassen, there aren't any woods," says Vasch.

Thomassen glares at him as he checks under the boy's collar. "I know that, Zwingli, thank you very much. Maybe your parents take you to the countryside sometimes?" he asks, addressing the patient again.

"No, Mummy doesn't like leaving London," says the little boy. "She says there's nothing to do."

Vasch can practically feel Thomassen's disdain. He supposes it makes sense that he spent his childhood running around on Daddy's estate.

"You know," he says as they leave the room with no further ideas, "for someone who raised their younger sibling, you're awful at talking to children."

"I only looked after Emil from when he was eight," says Thomassen. "He didn't need baby talk then. When children still need things oversimplified, it shows parental incompetence."

Vasch raises his eyebrows. He's _sure_ those numbers don't add up. "You took care of your younger brother while you were in med school?"

Thomassen shrugs. "I'd already done a year, I started when I was seventeen. And I had my own flat, which made it easier."

Vasch still doesn't have his own flat. "And your brother still doesn't — know?"

"No. And I don't intend to tell him."

"But you must be close."

"Very. That's why I can't tell him."

Vasch shakes his head. "And you're applying the same logic to Andersen?"

"Of course."

"Even though they both deserve to know?"

"They'd both suffer needlessly. I want to die quietly, Zwingli, I'm sure you'd understand."

Vasch thinks about his younger sister back in Switzerland. Elise is the first to check up on him if gets so much as a cold. "I'd tell my sister, and I'd tell Roderich, instead of letting them think I'm fine. You're essentially lying to them."

"I'm sure you've heard the term 'greater good'."

"You're a _prick_ , Thomassen."

—

Bonnefois, instead of paging him, decides to give Vasch the results personally. Héderváry is in the middle of explaining why exactly it's not an osteoid osteoma that they missed on the CT when Kirkland looks up, jumps up and points accusingly at the man standing in the doorway.

"I _told_ you never to come within ten feet of me again!" he cries.

"But how, then," says Bonnefois, "am I supposed to kiss you, _petit_?"

Vasch regrets not running the tests himself.

"Don't you fucking _dare_ call me little, you shit. I _waited_ for you to call me back, and all I got was a message passed on through about five different people — _"Oh, sorry, François can't make_ _it tonight, he's_ _too busy!" —"_

"Arthur, little Adelise is my _cousin_."

"That's actually illegal here, you know. And it's Dr. Kirkland to you."

Bonnefois has trouble suppressing a laugh. "It is _you_ who ran around with Adelise — no, you cannot deny it — but to know you did it out of jealousy, _well_. Now that _is_ interesting."

"Well, if you weren't off with her, why didn't you call me back?"

"Because you never gave me your phone number, _petit_. And I really was busy, I was called in to assist with a surgery, but I couldn't exactly call you to rearrange."

Kirkland is stunned into a humiliated silence, and Vasch takes the opportunity to remind Bonnefois of why he's actually here.

"Since you're in no hurry, I take it the echo and the exercise test didn't turn anything up."

"No, but Beilschmidt wanted you to know that we can't keep him here much longer if there's nothing physically wrong with him."

Vasch questions the use of the phrase 'nothing physically wrong' in conjunction with cardiac arrest. "Does he have any fresh ideas?"

"None, the boy is in perfect health."

"I'm going to check on him," Vasch says, pushing away the ten-year-old's file as Kirkland and Bonnefois start bickering again.

Schauss is on his laptop when he visits him, and barely looks up, presumably working.

"You know, stress really isn't good for the heart," says Vasch.

"There's nothing wrong with my heart," says his patient, still looking at the screen. "My brother, however, poses a problem."

"Your brother?"

"The art lecturer. He's emailed to tell me he's flying over from Amsterdam even though I _told_ him I'm fine."

"Family members do tend to care about one another."

"He has students who need him. I don't."

Vasch can't _stop_ seeing Thomassen. "He's just worried about you."

"I don't _want_ him to be," Schauss says, and then takes a shaky breath. " _Fuck_ — my chest hurts _._ "

His heart rate is elevated and rising, and even as Vasch adjusts the beta blockers in his IV, his eyes close slowly and his grip on his laptop weakens.

Vasch grabs the paddles and yells for help. A nurse comes running in, lies Schauss flat on his back and clears everything else off the bed.

"He's in V-fib — get an oxygen mask." He places the paddles on Schauss' chest. "Charging — _clear_." Vasch pauses. "Nothing, again. Charging — _clear_." Another pause. "We've got a pulse."

As the nurse fusses around Schauss, Vasch pulls out the ECG printout from the monitor beside his bed. It's perfectly normal, right up until the arrest. "Fuck," he says to himself as Beilschmidt walks in.

"One of the nurses alerted me," he says. "Perhaps we ought to hand the patient over to Kirkland."

"Kirkland is a _neurologist_ , you think he can help?"

"Perhaps more than we have here. The patient is clearly at risk."

"You were going to discharge him."

"And evidently, I no longer intend to do so."

Vasch sighs, and rubs a hand over his face. "I'm not letting Kirkland near this."

"It's possible our only option is to put in an ICD and make sure he's carefully monitored."

"Surgery, when we don't know what's throwing him into cardiac arrest? Yes, that definitely seems like a good decision."

Beilschmidt furrows his brow. "I don't appreciate your sarcasm, Zwingli. We need to act fast."

"We need to _diagnose_ fast. Recheck the patient history, this _must_ be genetic." An image of an eighteen-year-old Thomassen flashes in the back of his mind. He wonders, for a second, if he was really resuscitating a twenty-five-year-old businessmen from Belgium, or if his mind had already replaced Schauss with a young, scared Thomassen.

"We already know it can't be," Beilschmidt says after Vasch as he picks up his file and turns to leave. "Where are you going?"

"Home," says Vasch. "I'm going to work on this at home, where I can actually think. Make sure there's someone on hand for the patient. And his brother is supposedly going to turn up at some point, so make sure to ask him about the patient history, too."

"You're not my superior, you know," Beilschmidt calls.

"And nor are you mine."

—

"You're home early."

"Needed to think."

"About Beilschmidt's patient?"

"He went into cardiac arrest again. No abnormal heart rhythm leading up to it. Perfect health."

"It wasn't anaphylaxis?"

"Doesn't match. Patient doesn't have any allergies, either."

"How's Thomassen doing?"

Vasch looks up from the notes and files spread over their kitchen table and stares at Roderich. "He's not my patient anymore."

"It's been nearly six months, he should be seeing a cardiologist soon."

"He can do it himself, he's as good as anyone in Cardiology."

" _Vasch_. You're his doctor."

"I was his surgeon. He'd rather do it himself. He'd know if something was off more quickly than anyone else."

"Why don't you want to treat him?"

"Well, hopefully, there's nothing to treat."

"What is _up_ with you?" Roderich asks, pulling out the chair opposite Vasch's, sitting, and fixing him with a hard stare. "You're barely talking to me, spacing out during meetings with Kirkland, throwing yourself into a case that Beilschmidt threw at you out of the blue — which you _know_ you wouldn't even look at, usually — and you're acting weird around Thomassen ever since he was injured. What's going on, Vasch?"

"Nothing is going on, Roderich, I'm _fine_. Sometimes I just need to get away from Kirkland, you know how it is. He's been particularly insufferable lately."

Roderich shakes his head. "That's not it, I _know_ that's not it, you can tolerate Kirkland better than anyone else. Vasch, _talk_ to me. Please."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Is it Thomassen? Are you — seeing Thomassen?"

Vasch frowns at that. " _No_ , of course not. God, no. It's not — it's nothing to do with any sort of relationship."

"Then for goodness' sake, Vasch, what the fuck is it?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Roderich slams his hand down on the table, as if slamming out an angry chord on a piano. "And _I_ don't want my conversations with my boyfriend to be monosyllabic answers to tentative questions! It's been _six months_ , Vasch. I _know_ this is related to Thomassen, and if you're not sleeping with him then _surely_ it can't be that hard to just _tell me_ what's going on."

Vasch bites his lip. "It's — it's not really that simple."

"What, you're not allowed to talk about it to your own boyfriend?" When Vasch doesn't reply, Roderich raises an eyebrow. "You're actually _not allowed_ to talk about it. Thomassen has forbidden you. That wouldn't usually stop you."

"Patient confidentiality." There. Vasch has said it. It — it doesn't feel much better.

"You said he's not your patient anymore."

"I lied."

"What is there to hide? Is this related to the accident?"

Vasch closes his eyes, and rests his head in his hands. "Yes," he says, "but I _can't_ tell you. Only Kirkland and I know anything about it, and Kirkland only because he's known Thomassen since they were in med school together."

"Vasch, whatever it is, it's clearly affecting you, you _need_ to talk about it." Roderich takes his hand across their tiny, messy kitchen table and squeezes it. "You can talk to me, you know I won't tell anyone. I don't even like Thomassen, he's a self-righteous arse."

"Everyone we know is a self-righteous arse," Vasch says with a forced laugh. "I don't like him either, but — but _god_ , Roderich, I had to — I had to tell him he was going to die."

He realises, as soon as he says it outright, that while it's not _better,_ it really fucking _helps_ to actually share what's on his mind rather than bottle it up. He _realises_ , suddenly, that he's just been doing the same as Thomassen — keeping his thoughts so close to his chest that he's suffocating in them, with only the _greater good_ in mind, or some other bullshit. He's absolutely no better.

Roderich is shocked into silence by his words, but the grip on his hand tightens, and Vasch can't now stop talking.

"His heart tissue was damaged even before he was stabbed, and he went into cardiogenic shock. Unless he gets a transplant — which isn't likely, he's technically non-urgent and honestly, chances of surviving the surgery are slim — it'll just give out in ten years, maximum. I — I couldn't _do_ anything. There was too much damage for me to repair and I'm just letting him _die_ , Roderich."

Vasch is pretty sure he's crying now, but he carries on. "Neither Andersen nor his brother have any idea. He's refusing to tell them, and I just keep — I just keep imagining myself in the same situation. I don't know what would happen to Elise if I were to die. I don't want to imagine leaving you alone. And — and this patient of Beilschmidt's — he's _just like_ Thomassen. Much less of a brat, but he's twenty-five and running his own business and even though he's gone into arrest twice now, he doesn't want to see his family because he doesn't want to _inconvenience_ them, or some shit. And I have to _solve it_ , Roderich, I _have_ to, because if I don't I'll be killing Thomassen all over again."

"That's awful," Roderich says quietly. "That's _awful_. Fuck, Thomassen doesn't deserve that. He's so young, too, he's what—?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Twenty-eight," Roderich repeats. " _Shit_. But Vasch, you _can't_ blame yourself for it. It's awful, but he'd be a lot worse off if it weren't for you."

"I should've been able to _fix_ it, Roderich."

"You said there was already damaged tissue, there's nothing you could have done about that. You're the best cardiologist we have — that's why Kirkland snatched you. You saved his _life_ , Vasch."

"I could have done _more_."

Roderich stands up, walks round the other side of the table and gives him a bone-crushing hug. He hadn't quite realised that this is what he's needed for the past six months but — Roderich knows Vasch better than Vasch knows Vasch, so it makes sense.

"You're the only one blaming you, darling."

Vasch sighs shakily into his boyfriend's chest. "Thank you," he says quietly. "I think I needed to hear that."

—

Vasch wakes up at five, as usual, and goes for a run, as usual. He makes Roderich coffee, as usual, and drinks a pint of milk, as usual. Then, he sits at the kitchen table, poring over the files now migrating to every available surface in the flat, and doesn't move for another three hours, until Beilschmidt calls him.

"The patient's brother wants to know why his physician isn't here," he says. "As do I."

"I know, Beilschmidt, but I need to think. Have you got any more of a history from the brother?"

"He's not exactly the talkative type. It's not genetic, Zwingli."

Vasch sighs. His files are saying the same thing, but the symptoms — and his instinct — beg to differ. "I'll come in and ask him myself. But I'm going to recheck everything first."

"Just be in. You chose to take this patient, you're the one who has to see it through."

"Fine."

Vasch hangs up, and Roderich — underdressed, overslept — slides into the seat next to him, yawning. "Can I help?"

"Not unless you specialised in cardiology overnight. Sorry."

Roderich smiles. "I'm afraid I'm of no use, then. Are you going to speak to Thomassen?"

"About telling Andersen and his brother? God knows I've tried. He's so _stubborn_. I can't change his mind. Is Kirkland going to hunt you down for not being there?"

"He won't miss me, I needed that sleep. I haven't been able to get a decent night since Thomassen was injured."

 _Since you started to withdraw yourself_ remains unsaid. Guilt twists in Vasch's stomach. "I'm sorry," he says, and he means it. "Don't hesitate to wake me if you can't sleep in the future, okay? We'll talk things through, I'll make you some hot chocolate or something."

"Thanks," says Roderich. "I'm surprised I don't wake you anyway, though, you're such a light sleeper."

Vasch raises an eyebrow, amused. "I'm not a light sleeper, you just sleep more deeply than anyone I've ever known."

"I do not," Roderich says, with an indignant sniff. "I think I'm going to go back to bed, though, I'm _so_ tired."

"Okay. Sleep well," says Vasch, then looks again at the messy hair, the clumsily-tied bathrobe, the vaguely crooked glasses. He's never seen anything more beautiful. "Wait a sec," he adds, and pulls Roderich towards him into a kiss.

"Go save a life," Roderich says as they pull apart, smiling.

The taste of his lips is still on Vasch's as he gathers all his papers and Vasch feels — _optimistic_. He's got nothing to go on, and there's still a ghost of Thomassen following his every move — because no matter what happens, Thomassen's dying will always be on him, on his incompetence, because that's what it means to perform surgery on someone you actually care about — but he _will_ do this.

Schauss is looking worse for wear, now. He clearly hasn't slept properly since his second arrest, and when Vasch greets him, there's none of the charm and vitality he showed upon their first meeting.

"My brother, Lars," he says, gesturing to the tall man beside his bed. "Lars, Dr. Zwingli."

"Pleasure's mine," says Lars. "What is wrong with my brother?"

"Lars, _please_ ," Schauss sighs.

Vasch doesn't reply to his question. He's distracted — Schauss' files say that he shares only a mother with his two siblings, yet the birthmark on the elder brother's left hand is identical to that on the younger brother, but it's certainly missing from the mother in the family photo that Schauss keeps as his laptop homescreen. _Birthmarks aren't usually inherited, Zwingli_ , says his inner Kirkland, but Vasch ignores it — it's genetic. It _has_ to be genetic.

"I've been researching the wrong father," he breathes.

"I'm sorry?"

Vasch addresses Lars. "Your father — does he suffer from any type of heart condition?"

"My father is dead. He was in a car accident five years ago — how is this relevant, exactly?"

Loss of muscle strength would lead to loss of control over the vehicle — and syncope as a result of an undiagnosed hereditary disease would account for everything. Vasch realises now that neither cardiac arrest was, in fact, unprovoked; the first time, Schauss was on his way to the opera on a Monday afternoon, meaning that he was taking time out of work — meaning that he was stressed. The second, his brother had just emailed to inform him of his arrival in the U.K., and Schauss, being family-oriented to a fault, felt guilty. _Stress alone is unlikely to have caused the arrest_ , as he told Schauss, but stress with a pre-existing disease?

"Your brother has CPVT, it's a rare genetic condition — while it is uncommon that it would start manifesting at twenty-five, if it manifested so late in your father, too—"

"We have different fathers," Schauss cuts in. "It's in my file."

Vasch bites his lip. "I think you might have to ask your mother about that."

"So you can cure it?" asks Lars, before Schauss can argue about it.

"I can treat it," says Vasch. "I'll schedule the surgery — you'll need an ICD, which is our best shot for preventing cardiac arrest, and medication after that."

"But I'll be fine?"

"As long as you avoid exercises which could damage the ICD, you should be fine. And you should try to avoid too much stress, too."

Lars raises an eyebrow at the mention of stress. "Guillaume, Elise and I _keep_ telling you—"

" _Lars_ , stop _meddling_. I'll — hire someone to help me, I suppose."

"That sounds like a good plan," says Vasch.

—

"CPVT from a birthmark is a Kirkland-worthy diagnosis," says Beilschmidt, looking over the file. "You're sure about this?"

"It fits," Vasch says simply.

"Will you be doing the surgery?"

Vasch shakes his head. "I'd suggest Bonnefois."

"This is about Thomassen." It's not a question — Beilschmidt knows, has known, perhaps, the whole time. Any cardiologist to glance the file would guess, would conclude Thomassen's situation.

"There are — parallels."

"Zwingli, you're the best cardiologist we have, and the second best surgeon after Thomassen himself. I do hope there are no ridiculous notions of guilt or self-blame surrounding his situation."

"Simply a sense of responsibility," Vasch replies.

Beilschmidt sighs. "I'll tell Bonnefois," he says.

"Thank you."

There's a sense of liberation that surrounds the resolution of Schauss' case. Vasch rejoins Kirkland and the others, who conclude that the ten-year-old is in fact zinc-deficient, and turn their attention instead to Roderich's absence. Vasch refuses to participate until Héderváry begins speculating about their sex life, which is when he finally shoots them down with a cutting remark or two. The team, with no diagnostic work left, disperses to their various departments, and Vasch takes the opportunity to speak to Thomassen as they head to the ICU.

"I know I've said this before, but—"

"I need to tell Søren and Emil, I _know_. Kirkland's been saying the same thing. I'm not going to, you might as well give up."

"This is the last time I'll say it. Just — imagine if it was your brother who was keeping it from you, or Andersen. And one day their started heart giving out, and you'd never properly said your goodbyes."

"Zwingli, I do not need your guilt-tripping."

"Fine." Vasch recognises a lost cause when he sees one. "I just hope you'll do it eventually."


	3. he bleeds flowers

They agree, before Emil and Kristian even go to Norway, before Emil even knows for sure he'll be in Sweden, that it's for the best: they're still friends, best friends, probably even best friends who kiss when they're home from university. But, as Leon says, they're still really fucking young, and as Emil says, they're secure enough to come back to it later. They _want_ to be together. They _will_ be together. Just — not yet.

When Emil goes back to London to help Søren move into the Kensington house, Leon catches him and they kiss, and it's like nothing's changed, and it hasn't. It _hasn't_. When Emil goes to Stockholm, _weeks_ before Leon's term starts, they laugh about how Emil will fit right into art school — and about how Leon will be much less at home on his law course.

They sleep together the night before he leaves, and Emil is expecting some kind of sense of finality, but — he just wants _more_. He _needs_ Leon, in the same sort of way that a vase of flowers _needs_ a table to stand on. Suddenly, he's standing on nothing, and then he's falling and crashing and breaking and he realises that _oh_ — everything's changed.

A month or so in, Emil leaves a note on his cupboard in the kitchen: _'Going home for a few days. If there's any post for me, please leave it outside my door. Have a good weekend, everyone.'_ It's genius, because this way, he doesn't have to speak to anyone.

Leon was right. At university, he doesn't stand out. In London, his Americanised English was far more noticeable than his occasional Swedish mispronunciation or odd intonation in Stockholm. Here, his brightly-coloured jumpers aren't unusual. Worn DMs and thick leather satchels are common. He fits in in Sweden — or perhaps that really is just art school — and Emil realises now that actually, that's fucking disastrous.

"You define yourself by your differences," Kristian tells him as he stirs basil into their pasta. "In Norway, you're Icelandic. In the U.K., you're Norwegian. You deliberately keep a British accent in Swedish — yes, you do, don't try to deny it."

"I _am_ Icelandic," says Emil, ignoring most of his brother's words.

"You're as Icelandic as I am," Kristian replies, and Emil takes a second to think about that, because his brother just _is_ Norwegian, no matter where their father is from. But Emil was actually _born_ in Iceland, which _surely_ makes him more Icelandic— "And you're uncomfortable now that you're not the only who one looks like he came from an indie album cover from the eighties. Obviously, there are healthier ways of constructing your own identity, but it's probably easier just to make yourself stand out than to completely change how you define yourself."

"You know, most people ask how the flight was before launching into a discussion on identity and self-definition," Søren says as he walks into the kitchen, throwing his arms around Emil and ruffling his hair.

Kristian shrugs. "If his flight wasn't fine, he'd say so. Why bother with small talk?"

"Small talk is important. It might actually help you to get to know people," he says as he releases Emil.

"Nothing eventful happened on my flight," Emil says, rearranging his hair. He doesn't really see how that would help get to know someone.

"I can't _believe_ your problem is that you fit in too much," says Søren, hypocritically skating over the small talk. "That's just so _you_. But listen, Emil, I don't think it has to be a problem — even in a crowd of pretentious art students, you're going to stand out in some way. How many of them can recite obscure Icelandic poetry, after all? What really matters is that you find someone else who, like you, is even more pretentious than the rest of them, and you stand out together."

"So I need to be more individual, and then find someone like me?"

"When you put it like that, it sounds more complicated than it actually is. You just need to attract your kind of people who, incidentally, tend to be like you in the sense that they don't quite fit in either. From what I understand, that's how you found that group of absolute hipsters in sixth form. It's really a credit to the narcissism you've picked up from Kristian."

"Watch it, _Andersen_ ," says Kristian. "Or you won't get any gnocchi. You need to _talk_ to people, Emil. They'll find you as soon as you find them."

Emil has absolutely no intention of _talking_ to people in his classes, but nods anyway. Kristian's cooking smells good, and he's missed home-cooked food, so he goes along with it. He'll wear a brighter jumper, or something, but he's only at uni for a few years, anyway. There's always Mathieu, who he spent most of the first week with. Emil isn't sure he has a personality, but it's not like he was expecting the same kind of crowd he had in London — at least it's not like how it was Norway. And Emil does have a bad habit of mixing up _not having a personality_ and _genuinely just being a nice person_.

Søren puts on a Domenico Modugno vinyl, and they eat. It's good to be home.

—

 _EMIL (00:09): miss you_ ❤️

 _LEON (00:09): miss you too, 'mil :( xxx_

—

Leon's talking to him, showing him his room, asking him about his course, but all he can think about is the feel of his smooth skin, his soft lips, kissing him.

"It's — going well," he says.

Leon beams. "I'm glad," he says. "I'm not gonna lie, I was worried about you, 'Mil. Thought you might retreat into yourself again, go back to the closed book you were when you first came to London, or something. You're stronger than that, though."

"Mmm," says Emil. "Are your flatmates here? Do you get on with them?"

"Most of them have gone home for reading week, but yeah, they're decent. No one makes too much noise, too much of a mess in the kitchen, or anything."

"That's good. I think mine are pretty similar."

"Are they all international students too?"

Emil doesn't actually _know_ if any of the people he lives with are Swedish. "Uh, yeah. Mathieu's French-Canadian, I think, and Feliks is Polish, and I'm fairly sure both Conrad and Emmet are German. Maybe German-American."

"That's cool, though. Do you speak English or Swedish with them?"

"Um — mostly English." He doesn't _speak_ with them, full stop.

"That must be nice, like you haven't even left London."

"Mmm."

Emil's lips are tingling, as if they remember the feel of Leon's. His chest aches at the space between them on the bed. His hand twitches as it takes everything he has not to put an arm around his — _ex_ -boyfriend.

Why are they doing this, again?

"Do you want to get a coffee or something?" Leon asks, standing up just as Emil leans in to hug him, hold his hand, _something_. "We could go back to Kensington, or — do you fancy a drink at the V&A?"

"Sure." Emil will admit he's missed the V&A.

He's pretty sure he's missed Leon more, though.

—

 _EMIL (18:02): today was nice, we should do it again_ ❤️

 _LEON (18:19): get home safe, ok?_

—

When he gets home, after an afternoon of overpriced lattes and under-appreciated art, Kristian and Søren are sitting at the dining table in the kitchen, photos strewn over the marble.

"Emil, come join us," Søren calls as Emil throws his coat and satchel on the sofa.

They're mostly Polaroids, over-exposed shots of the same five or six people. From the quality, Emil would say they're from the mid-two thousands — oh-six, maybe, or perhaps oh-seven or oh-eight. The subjects: assorted arrangements of the six young men — all tall, clad in similar country-club appropriate attire, washed out by the flash.

"You dressed so badly in uni," he tells his brother.

"It's what everyone wore," Kristian shrugs. "If Jack Wills sold it, we wore it."

Despite the Oxbridge twattiness of the photos, Emil has to admit — Kristian looks _good_ in them. He barely remembers his brother as a teenager — he was seven when Kristian moved to England — but the untamed hair, the sharp cheekbones, the thin shoulders all look like they belong in the pages of Emil's sketchbook.

"Jesus _Christ_ , you were a pretentious dick," says Søren.

"I was a damn sight better than Kirkland. He wore his hair gelled back like that for the first three years of uni."

"These are from your first year," Emil says, looking at them more closely. "Aren't they?"

Kristian nods. "Most of them are from the summer. You know I didn't come home during that break, so Arthur and the others stayed in Cambridge a bit longer, too."

Considering all Emil remembers of the spring of Kristian's first year is being flown out to England in a hurry and clutching his brother's hand, crying, it certainly makes sense that Kristian would be wearing a somewhat dishevelled look in the summer. He looks so _young_ here. Emil guesses it's maybe two months before Kristian's eighteenth, and before he rescued Emil from their parents.

Emil can barely look after himself, let alone a seven-year-old and a medicine degree.

"You were easy to take care of."

"I didn't even say anything," Emil says, raising an eyebrow.

"He can read minds, you know," says Søren. "The other day, I'd had a really bad day, and all I wanted to do was lie on the sofa and eat dangerous amounts of Chinese food. And, get this — when I got in, Kristian was _literally already there_ with an Italian period drama on Netflix and the Deliveroo app open."

Kristian shakes his head, lips twitching into a smile. "It was a coincidence, I swear. You have insufficient evidence to incriminate me."

"I disagree. You're like Carrie. No, _wait_ , you're Edward Cullen! Yeah, actually, you being a vampire explains a lot."

As Kristian and Søren bicker like a pair of old women, Emil goes back to examining the photos. They're just so — _aesthetically pleasing_. Emil _knows_ he drew the short straw, bone structure wise, and he _knows_ that the Kristian in these photos wasn't exactly _healthy_ , but — _god_ , he wishes he had his brother's features. He's fairly sure all his problems would be solved if he had the same chiseled jawline his brother had at his age. Years of hockey have made him broader and stockier than Kristian has ever been — he wouldn't call himself _muscular_ , exactly, but god knows it's been a while since he fit into a size small — and he's a good ten inches shorter, too. Kristian stands out in these photos, even among the other Oxbridge twats. He's wearing the same clothes, but where Kirkland wears his cashmere jumpers and duffel coats like a middle-aged father, Kristian looks more like he walked off the pages of a French _Vogue_ piece on the most eligible and insufferable bachelors rather than a golf course.

It occurs to Emil — not for the first time — that maybe what he needs to stand out in art school isn't a different outfit, but a different silhouette. He pushes the thought down — again, not for the first time — but as he keeps going through the photos, looking, _analysing_ each one, he can't stop the flames in his stomach that flick and lick at him, _yearning_ for the same willowy figure in the photos.

"Emil? You okay?" Søren asks, and Emil realises he's been in his head for too long.

"Mmm, fine. I'm going to get some sleep, I think." He pauses and looks at Kristian, twenty-eight with a degree and a house and a boyfriend and a heart that is no longer trying to kill him and yet _still_ , delicate shoulders and thin arms and carved, porcelain cheekbones that are just in every way imaginable more elegant, more _beautiful_ than Emil's freckled cheeks and sturdy build. "Can I take one of these?"

"Of course, I was planning on throwing them away. I look like such a _mess_ , it's embarrassing," Kristian says. Søren protests, trying to save memories that aren't his.

Emil picks up a couple of the photos. Later, he slips them carefully into one of his sketchbooks. He does not sleep well that night.

—

 _EMIL (09:17): hey, want to get coffee? x_

 _LEON (17:33): got a deadline, sorry_

—

As he sits on his bed in his room in Sweden, he stares blankly at the photos on his pinboard. It's pretty fucked up, he realises, to romanticise the malnourished body of someone dragged back from the brink of death. It's pretty fucking disgusting, in fact, and Emil _hates_ that he's doing it. He hates himself for it.

He understands now why the photos fit in so well in his sketchbook. Emil has a _style_ — his sketches are good, obviously, but more importantly, they're _beautiful_. It's taken him this long to realise that the two aren't necessarily synonymous. His sketches, his paintings, all his art is beautiful, because _goddamn_ does he want to be beautiful. Traditionally, classically beautiful. Beautiful like the human works of art covering the pages of _Vogue_ , beautiful like the subject of a Sicilian sonnet; _quella c'a blonda testa e claro viso, lo suo bel portamento_. And Kristian _is_ that.

Emil is so _hungry_.

His hands are shaking pretty fucking badly when he's painting in the studio the next day. He skips choir practice that day, and hockey the day after. Mathieu manages to catch him just he's leaving the flat Friday morning.

"Emil! Are you okay? I meant to ask sooner, you weren't at practice," he says, with what seems to be genuine concern.

"I'm fine, don't worry. Just wasn't feeling up to it."

"Oh, I hope you feel better soon!"

"Thanks," says Emil, and he goes back to the studio. He only has one class today, so he spends the rest of his working on his next assessment — acrylics, a large canvas in darker tones. He has an overdue essay on the Ferrarase art tradition, but he just doesn't fucking _care_.

He sleeps through Saturday, finishes his essay on Sunday and eats breakfast on Monday. He can't remember what else happened on Monday.

And all of a sudden, he's noticing his jumpers are slightly too big. He's digging out a belt from the back of his wardrobe. He feels _disgusted_. He feels like an absolute fucking mess, and he hates it. He _hates_ knowing that he's lost control now, there's no way of getting it back and he's on a slippery slope. But, he finds himself thinking, he can count his ribs and that's all that matters.

It's worked — Mathieu notices. Mathieu notices his absence from the kitchen and hockey practice and his bonier wrists and slimmer waist and it's _worked_. Emil's managed to find someone he can depend on to catch him when he falls, like he had in London. But everything's changed, again. Mathieu _notices_ , so Emil _hides_ it. Because Emil doesn't _want_ to be helped. Emil doesn't have a _problem_. He doesn't _need_ to be helped.

"Emil, you're _shaking_ — are you sure you're okay?"

"Caffeine rush, got a deadline tomorrow. Thanks for checking in, though, Mathieu. I'm fine, honestly."

Mathieu doesn't seem convinced, but his phone rings and he gives Emil one last worn smile before taking it into the kitchen.

Emil locks his door behind him, collapses onto his bed and sleeps for ten hours before he gets up again, showers vigorously, throws on the one pair of jeans that still vaguely fits him and goes to class again. He eats dinner that night, and can't sleep. He doesn't have a _problem_. He _hasn't_ lost control. He's just tired, and stressed, and that's why he can't sleep — it's _stress_. It would be pathetic if he was anxious because he ate a plate of pasta. It's just stress from his five deadlines.

He goes _out_ -out on Friday. Mathieu knows someone from a Canadian society or something who works at one of the nicer clubs in Stockholm, so they go together because they both need a break, and Mathieu has started to grow on Emil.

They predrink bad vodka while listening to Spanish music in the kitchen, and Emil gets very smashed very quickly and Mathieu is giggling far more than usual and Emil _thinks_ he remembers Feliks hovering nearby and the sch _-nap_ of an iPhone camera.

In the club, it's all kind of a blur of bright lights and pounding bass and Emil welcomes it because it's a considerably friendlier kind of numb than he's used to.

Mathieu looks pretty nice tonight, all acid-washed denim and eighties vibes that rival Emil's, so it's no surprise that he disappears pretty quickly with this friend, leaving Emil alone and drunk on the dance floor. He's drunk enough to dance without inhibitions, and it feels fucking good — and so do the lips of a shorter, dark-haired young man. It's _not_ Leon, he has to remind himself. He doesn't even look much like Leon — the eyes aren't so warm, the jawline is weaker, the mouth and nose are completely different — but later, in the guy's apartment, it's Leon's name he wants to scream, breathless and flushed. It's nowhere near what it was like with Leon. It's full of desire and desperation, and it's a fucking mess — neither of them know the other's name — and Emil isn't entirely sure if it's what he needed or if it's just made him crave Leon more.

He gets a taxi home, texts Mathieu to reassure him he's still alive and alright, and passes out on top of his duvet at four a.m.

—

 _EMIL (18:21): what are your term dates again? i'm back in london on the 15th..._

—

Christmas comes around pretty fast, and before Emil knows it, he has three essays, two projects and a presentation due. He's heard Stockholm is gorgeous during the festive season, but he wouldn't know, because he barely even leaves campus.

Being busy is good, though. It's inertia that fosters anxiety. Emil _likes_ being busy, because when he's busy, he can't lie in bed thinking about Leon. When he's busy, it's understandable that he doesn't have time to make dinner. He goes from rarely seeing the people he lives with to not even seeing Mathieu more than twice a week.

In the last week, though, as everyone is either crashing or close to crashing, Mathieu suggests they _do something_ with the flat.

"It'll be fun," he says, watching Emil sip his fourth green tea that day — it's _meant_ to help with stress.

"So is getting a good grade."

"I know you don't necessarily know the others that well, but they're _nice_ , honestly — I mean, I don't know Conrad and Emmet that well, either, they have kind of split off from the rest of us, so it could just be us and Feliks?"

In the entire first term, Emil has spoken to Conrad and Emmet fewer than three times. If he saw them out of the context of the flat, he _knows_ he wouldn't be able to identify them.

"Why can't it just be us?" Emil asks, well aware that he sounds like a needy boyfriend. In truth, he's only just got used to Mathieu, and throwing someone else into the equation sounds simply terrifying.

"Feliks doesn't socialise much, either," Mathieu says, and it's a surprise to Emil. Feliks is just the _type_. "He's probably worse than you, if I'm honest."

"But he's so — _ostentatious_."

"And you're _pretentious_ , but that doesn't mean that you like socialising."

"I mean, I suppose that logic follows. I'd rather Feliks than the other two."

"Good, I'll tell Feliks. Pizza and Netflix, Friday evening?"

"Mmm, sounds good." Emil is already doing calculations in his head — half a pizza is socially acceptable, and if he goes for a run the morning after—

Friday comes quickly, because the only other thing Emil has to focus on is Renaissance art techniques. He and Feliks sit at opposite ends of Mathieu's bed, neither visibly comfortable with the situation — and Mathieu was _right_ , Feliks is _awkward_ when they're talking. It's a less falsified, less _vivid_ side to his flatmate, and if he's honest, he probably prefers it. Feliks seems more real, somehow, when he's not trying to be a paler, Polish Kim Kardashian. Emil gets it, though — having a mask is a better way of dealing with social situations than avoiding them.

"The cinematography in this is _gorgeous_ ," says Mathieu through a mouthful of pizza. "And _god_ , the _characterisation_ — it fucking gets me. I can't tell you how many times I've thought about what I'd do if I was in Walt's position. I mean, obviously I wouldn't cook meth. But like, would I try to hide everything? Would I lash out? I have no _fucking clue_."

"You can't handle that kind of thing on your own," says Feliks. "You _can't_ hide it, it'll destroy you. I mean, it's mostly what's destroyed Walt, kind of. I'd have to tell _someone_. But I guess, like, ultimately? I'd want it to be graceful, I'd want to, like — fade away, I guess. So I'd probably just end up slowly cutting myself off eventually."

"I'd be angry," says Emil. "At first. Then I guess I'd just get impatient."

"Impatient? You mean, you'd—?"

"Probably. It's less painful, anyway. My brother's boyfriend is an oncologist, and — I've heard _enough_ , you know?"

Mathieu and Feliks are silent as the characters on Mathieu's laptop screen scream cutting abuse at each other.

"I think I'd do the same, actually," Mathieu says. "It's just — hearing it from someone else changes it, I think. Maybe we're more selfish when it's other people. I wouldn't want you to do it, but I would. The hypocrisy of it, eh?"

"Yeah," says Feliks. "I see what you mean."

Mathieu yawns and stretches and goes to get a few bottles of cider, leaving Emil and Feliks alone. The silence is broken only by the characters on the screen, and then—

"Emil, do you think — do you think Mat's _okay_?"

Emil raises an eyebrow. "Okay by normal standards or by Mat's standards?"

Feliks bites his lip. "Listen, please don't mention it to him, but, like — _god_ , I don't want to say it — I'm not sure he's eating properly." When Emil raises his eyebrows higher, he seems to panic and hurriedly elaborates. "I mean, he's so skinny, and like _sure_ he's probably naturally skinny, but I rarely ever see him eating, and I'm just — I'm just worried the stress is getting to him, or something."

Emil actually finds the irony pretty funny. "I don't think you need to worry. Mathieu is probably dealing with the workload the best out of all of us. Besides, he's usually out when everyone is in — hockey practice is pretty intense."

"Okay," Feliks says, still biting his lip. "Okay. You're probably right. I'd just — I'd feel awful if someone was doing something like that to themselves and I didn't even notice. Like, that kind of shit is just so much worse if you're alone."

It stops being funny and starts to kind of ache, and Emil wonders how far Feliks' perceptiveness goes. It's wrong that he sees it as a threat, and he _knows_ it's wrong, but he's pretty glad he's going home next week anyway. He doesn't need any keen eyes on him. Or maybe he does, but — he doesn't _want_ them. He _craves_ the shaking hands, the fuzziness in his head, the ache in his chest — it's a better kind of ache than when he thinks about Leon.

Mathieu comes back with another whole pizza that he and Feliks eat between them, and Emil tries to bite back the bitter taste that Feliks' words leave in his mouth for the rest of the evening.

—

 _EMIL (22:34): i'm flying home tomorrow, do you want to do something together? i miss you, leon_

—

It's strange: Emil loves art school. He loves spending his time painting and writing bullshit essays and trying out new techniques. Yeah, the people situation dulls it, and _yeah_ , his mental health has seen better days, but — art school itself, Emil absolutely adores. The course content, when compared to his A-levels, is phenomenal.

But every time he comes back to London, he just wants to drop out and work in the bakery on the corner and keep living with Kristian and Søren forever.

Kristian is working late the day Emil arrives back in the U.K., but Søren meets him off the plane, and honestly, when he and Kristian started sleeping together, and when that twisted itself into a relationship, Emil was wary of him, mistrustful with his precious brother, but now Søren's greeting him with a tight hug and really bad Icelandic — and Emil wonders, who are those people in Norway to him? These are his parents. This is his home.

He doesn't say any of that, of course, but he hugs Søren back pretty fucking tightly and even engages in his small talk, just to indulge him. When they get back to the house, the Christmas tree is already up in the living room, there are brightly coloured throws draped over the sofas and Søren lights a fire. When Kristian comes home, they drink hot soup together while (re)watching _Amélie_.

The next day, Søren makes pancakes for breakfast. Kristian makes sushi for lunch, and they order pizza for dinner because it's Saturday and there are bad films on TV that are a far bigger priority than cooking. On Sunday, Kristian makes French toast for breakfast, quiche for lunch and Søren makes linguini for dinner. On Monday, they leave him in bed reminding him there's food in the fridge for breakfast and lunch, and that they should both be back for dinner. Emil goes to the gym for two hours and tells himself he's fine even when his vision begins to blur and he can barely stand anymore.

It's stir-fry for dinner, and Emil's stomach is so unused to any kind of fried food now that he ends up in pain for the rest of the night.

He goes to the gym pretty much every day, and goes twice on days where Søren and Kristian are home. After all, it's not like he has any other plans — his group of friends from sixth form has kind of dissolved, and his only friends now are either in the same house as him or in Canada. Perhaps even Poland, if he's stretching it. When he's not at the gym, he's thinking about being at the gym while doing work for his course.

His old friends do organise one house party, though. It's on a Wednesday, and Emil very nearly doesn't go when he thinks about the possibility of disturbing his brother and Søren when he gets home in the early hours of the morning, but he washes up anyway. Leon doesn't answer his text asking if he'll be there. He's not there, anyway.

Emil feels sick even before he drinks — as he's thinking about the _calories_ in alcohol, the sheer _unhealthiness_ of each drink — and doesn't feel much better once he starts, either. He's not a lightweight, but there isn't exactly anything lining his stomach to soak up the alcohol, and before he knows it, he's dancing — then he's dancing _with_ someone — then he's kissing someone — then he's being fucked hard in a guest bedroom.

He throws up six times in the adjoining bathroom, alone. He doesn't even remember which one of his old friends he fucked.

Someone finds him eventually, in the early hours of the morning. Carinne, he thinks. She was always closer to Leon than to him — and yet she's there, helping him up, handing him a glass of water, supporting him as he loses his balance again, and he can't stop himself from asking, whispering, _pleading_ —

"What did I _do_?"

She looks at him in confusion. "Like, tonight, or...?"

"Leon," he chokes out, before throwing up again.

Her look softens. "Emil, you didn't do anything. Leon's being an idiot. I've tried to talk to him, I'm sorry, he's _trying_ to help but he's got it all wrong—"

And Emil's vision blackens and he passes out and the day after, he remembers nothing.

—

 _EMIL (08:12): merry christmas eve_

—

Christmas Eve is the first time both Søren and Kristian have a day off, and thus Emil wakes up to an enthusiastic tenor rendition of _Ding Dong! Merrily on High_ and the smell of roasting pork — because in his own words, Kristian is 'strictly vegetarian until it's just _wrong_ not to eat meat'. Søren Skypes his parents in Copenhagen, and Emil and Kristian receive an onslaught of excited Danish compliments when he flips the camera around to them lounging in front of the fire, each with his nose in a book. Christmases with just Kristian were never _lonely_ , per se, but Emil enjoys having someone else around.

Predictably, both Søren and Kristian are tipsy by dinner and upon handing Emil his gifts — a new camera, new watercolours, new iPhone that isn't cracked beyond recognition, the William Blake DMs he's had his eye on — Kristian _giggles_ and says, "Fulfil your art hoe dreams, _skatten min._ "

Søren raises his glass to that, laughing and handing them both plates of food. It's a veritable feast, and Emil's anxiety levels are higher than the tree in Trafalgar Square. He forces one plate down, is faced with another and chooses instead to pour them both another drink. Søren's cat happily eats his pork under the table, unnoticed. Crisis averted, and more importantly, Emil wins charades.

Kristian and Søren drift off in a wineful haze sometime around eleven, and Emil doesn't have the heart to wake them up before twelve the next morning.

—

 _EMIL (00:03): ...merry christmas, leon._

—

Christmas Day passes uneventfully; they go for a walk in the park, all parties complain about the lack of snow, plans are made to move to a country with better weather. Kristian seems to spend the day trying to sleep the alcohol out of his system before he has to work the day after, while Søren and Emil entertain themselves with an over-enthusiastic game of Scrabble which Søren wins — unfairly, in Emil's opinion, and Kristian's testimony that there was no cheating is frankly quite clearly biased.

In the evening, Emil sits down with his laptop and his essay and knocks out one hundred, maybe two hundred words before it _gets_ to him. His resolve is weaker at home and he _knows_ the fancy chocolate in the kitchen would make the history of German printing less painful.

And so at one in the morning, Emil finds himself in the kitchen, drowning in his own conflicting thoughts and reaching for the snack, dissociated from his surroundings, and he almost misses the figure in the study — _almost_ —

"Kristian," he breathes, and his brother jumps violently. " _Kristian_ , what's wrong?"

Through quiet sobs that wrack his entire body, Kristian shakes his head and stammers out some sort of deflection. And suddenly, Emil is seven years old again, standing in the doorway of an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar country in an unfamiliar language, while his brother cries, raw and ugly. Their parents whisper grimly to each other, but Emil can't hear them — his own thoughts are too loud, his heart is pounding in his head as he tries to tell himself it'll be okay, Kristian will be okay, Kristian _said_ he'll be okay so he _has_ to be okay.

"It _hurts_ ," Kristian had said then, and Emil had hurt, too.

Now, as Kristian is curled up in his desk chair, clutching his chest, Emil feels it again.

"Is it — is it from when you were stabbed? I thought it had healed? Should I be calling Zwingli? I'll call Zwingli—"

" _Don't_. It — didn't. It didn't heal. Not really. It—" Kristian cuts off to cough weakly, and seven-year-old Emil sees blood spatter into his hand, and eighteen-year-old Emil forces himself to blink the image away. "I — it couldn't heal properly."

Emil doesn't understand. "You mean — for what, ten months? — it's been—?"

"Hell," Kristian coughs. "I'm fine during the day, mostly, but when I'm tired — it _hurts_ , Emil, it hurts _so fucking much_."

Emil pushed Kristian to go back to work, to stay in England, to keep practicing. The _guilt_ — but Kristian said—

"It _couldn't_ heal? It — it _won't_ heal?"

Kristian freezes, eyes wide with — guilt? _Fear?_ "I didn't mean — I — _fuck_ , Emil." He takes a deep, long breath, one hand still rubbing his chest. "It won't. I _won't_."

"I don't understand — you mean — but Zwingli said he could _fix it_ — I don't _understand_."

"He _did_ , but — it was already damaged, so he couldn't — oh, _Emil_ , this is _not_ how I intended for this to happen."

Emil is crying now, too. "So — so that's it? You're _dying_ , Kristian?"

Kristian flinches, and whether it's from pain or Emil's words, Emil doesn't know. Emil doesn't _care_. "It's not — it's — I've probably got about nine years, maybe a little more, maybe a little less."

Emil registers Kristian's words, but his ears are ringing, and _nine years_ echoes in his head. Nine years — his brother, his only brother, his only _family_ — he doesn't _understand_. He wishes he didn't understand. He wants to wake up now, please. He wants the nightmare to be over now.

 _"Emil, pack your things. We are going to England because your brother has got himself sick."_

 _"No, Emil, Kristian is too frail for young visitors. I can't let you see him."_

 _"Emil, you understand that your brother might not make it."_

He isn't seven anymore. Kristian is _fine_ , Kristian _will_ be fine, Kristian _has_ to be fine.

"Emil? Can you hear me?"

Emil blinks, and some of the tears in his eyes clear. He nods.

"Emil, I'm sorry," Kristian says, pulling him into a hug.

"Why — why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"I'm _sorry_. I should have told you sooner."

Emil sniffs into Kristian's shoulder. "When were you _going_ to tell me? Does — does Søren know?"

"Emil, you _can't_ tell Søren."

"That's — that's fucking _stupid_ , he's your _boyfriend_."

"I know. But I _can't_ tell him. I just — I just _can't_."

"You're being stupid and stubborn."

"I know."

"But Arthur knows."

"He does."

"Your ex-boyfriend shouldn't know that you're dying before your current one does."

"I know."

"Then—" Emil pulls back from the hug, and stares blankly into his brother's red-rimmed eyes. He feels like he should be angry about this, in Søren's defence, but he doesn't have enough energy left for that. "Then _tell_ him, Kristian. He deserves it."

"I _know_ , Emil. I feel fucking awful about it. But — but I'm just — I'm just scared he'll decide he wants someone who isn't _broken_ , who isn't slowly falling apart."

 _Leon_. Leon doesn't want to deal with Emil's shit — he's had enough of his anxiety, his panic attacks, his nightmares, his self-doubt. He wants someone who isn't broken, who isn't tearing themselves apart. Emil _understands_ now. But—

"But Søren — Søren isn't _like_ that."

"I know. Deep down, I know that, Emil. But I can't—"

"Shake the feeling," says Emil. "That he wants something better. Someone better."

"Yes," says Kristian. "That's it. But we're not talking about Søren anymore. Emil, why are you here? Why are you awake?"

Emil shakes his head. He doesn't want to have this conversation. He will do anything to avoid this conversation. Especially now. God, he just wants to _die_ — let Kristian live to see his fortieth birthday, and take Emil instead, because what the fuck is the point anymore? What the fuck is the _point_ without Kristian? What the fuck is the point of a fucked up art student, the disappointing younger brother of a genius? Why is it Kristian, and not him?

"God, we're a pair," Kristian says. He coughs out a laugh, but it sounds bitter. "Can't even talk to each other about our issues."

Emil closes his eyes. "I haven't eaten today."

"What? Why?"

"I didn't want to."

Kristian frowns. "You weren't hungry? Do you feel sick?"

"No, it's not—"

"Oh, my _god_ ," Kristian says suddenly, and Emil knows he doesn't have to say any more. He feels as if his guilt is about to swallow him whole. Kristian doesn't deserve to have to deal with _his_ problems. Emil is _disgusting_ , starving himself to try to look like Kristian, who is _actually_ in pain, _actually_ suffering — he's _disgusting_.

Kristian stands up and winces. "I'm making you food," he announces. "You look like you're about to pass out, _God_ — how didn't I _see_?"

"I'm fine," says Emil.

"You're not fucking _fine_ , Emil, _Jesus_ — fucking Christ, this is my fault. Søren fucking _said_ you looked thinner, and all the bullshit with Leon — fucking _hell_."

Emil feels as if he's watching Kristian through a thick pane of glass. He's not really sure what's happening now. He's not really there. Kristian is dying, his brain tells him, and he's just worked out Emil's self-destructive habits.

This is bad, his mind supplies. He's been found out.

He doesn't want to do anything about it.

He watches as Kristian boils pasta, and then makes a cup of tea, and places it in front of him. He stares at it.

"Eat," says Kristian. " _Please_."

And Emil realises, suddenly, he's hurt Kristian. Kristian is worried about _him_. He's fucked up. He's fucked _up_. He's _fucked up_ — he never wanted to hurt Kristian, he just wanted to be _prettier_ , he just wanted Leon to like him still, he just wanted his old life back, before he went to Sweden and before Kristian was stabbed and before Leon suggested they take a break—

"I know," Kristian says softly, and Emil realises he's crying again. "I know, baby. It's okay."

"It's not okay."

"It will be okay. Leon will realise he's made a mistake, I promise you."

"It — it wasn't a _mistake_ , he deserves better than—"

"Emil," says Kristian. " _Eat_. It will make you feel better. Trust me, I'm a doctor."

Through his tears, Emil smiles. He eats the pasta, and then he drinks the tea, and he does feel better — even though it's _not_ okay. But it _might_ be okay. Someday.

"You need to tell Mathieu, okay?" Kristian says. "It'll be hard, but you can overcome this, I promise."

"Okay."

"You're strong, Emil. You've survived a hell of a lot."

Emil hugs Kristian, burying his head into his shoulder.

It'll be okay. Kristian says so.

—

 _EMIL (02:17): i need to_ _talk to you._

 _LEON (02:22): ok_

 _LEON (02:22): now?_

 _EMIL (02:22): i'll call you._

—

Emil nearly throws up after eating a full three meals on Boxing Day.

"Your body is craving nutrients," Kristian says. "Your mind may disagree, but you _need_ this."

Emil knows he's right. He listens.

—

 _LEON (03:11): fuck, emil, i'm really_ _sorry._

 _—_

They get coffee in the V&A again.

"I'm really fucking sorry, Emil. I fucked up."

Emil sips his mocha. "Why did you — I mean, I get why we broke it off when I went to Sweden, that made sense, but, like, not being friends at all?"

Leon sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. Emil is pretty mad at him still. But god, he's in love. "I was being an idiot. I thought — I thought that if you had a new start, in a different country, you could move on properly from your parents, and from Kristian being injured, and things."

Emil supposes that makes sense. "I thought you didn't love me anymore."

"I know, I'm so fucking sorry — I should've supported you, I should've listened to Carinne, she told me it was a stupid idea, but I was so certain — but it was _stupid_. I love you."

"I love you too," says Emil, but bites his lip anxiously. "I'm — I _am_ a mess, though, and I get that that's probably pretty hard to deal with—"

Leon looks horrified. "'Mil, _no_. I wouldn't break up with you because of a mental illness — _god,_ that sounds so _shitty_. We're both fucking wrecks, anyway. You dealt with me when my parents split, even though it fucked me up. What the fuck kind of boyfriend am I if I can't support you?"

"I guess you're right," says Emil. "I'm — I'm glad I have you back."

"I'm glad to have you back, too, 'Mil. I missed you so _fucking_ much."

Leon's hand finds his under the table.

"I missed you too, Leon."

—

 _EMIL (17:34): mathieu, do you mind kind if i discuss some pretty heavy stuff with you?_

 _MATHIEU (17:34): Go ahead! Anything I can help with?_

 **a note:** on ao3 this is posted as 3 separate stories in a series. but that isn't an option here. so they're one story. sorry. also don't starve yourself, it's a really fucking bad idea, i'd know. you need food to survive. eat.


	4. living nightmares

"So you are telling me, _petit_ , that you have not once in your life seen the masterpiece that is _À Bout de Souffle_?"

"I swear, François, if you call me little _one more fucking time_ —"

François, much to Arthur's dismay, completely ignores him and continues to ramble on. Arthur has absolutely _no_ idea which cruel trick of fate landed _him_ as the one suffering through this unwelcome French curiosity, but — not that he'd _ever_ admit it — he's found that, unfortunately, it's grown on him. In fact, if he was to show up to work and simply _not_ be terrorised by François Bonnefois, he might just even — _miss_ it.

"You are such a _strange_ creature, Arthur! You know French so well, and yet you never speak it — anyone else would be so proud to speak such a beautiful language. _I_ am proud to speak it, even if I am not always proud to be French! And you know nothing of French film, and you've barely read any French literature. _And_ ," François continues dramatically, gesturing to the shitty cafeteria food in front of them, despite your proficiency in the most exquisite of the Romance languages, you are still somehow completely lacking in taste."

Arthur looks at his egg-and-cress sandwich, beginning to suspect that François' argument is rooted more in personal preference than a question of cultural or intellectual value. "This is the best thing they sell here."

François shakes his head. "No, any fool could see that the onion soup is clearly the least offensive choice. And thus, I conclude that it is imperative that you are initiated into the world of French _cinéma_."

Arthur doesn't like the sound of that. "And how, might I ask, do you plan on achieving this?"

"Well, _I_ have the DVD, and _you_ have a large flat with an equally large TV—"

"You're inviting yourself into my home," Arthur states, raising an eyebrow. He wishes he could say he's surprised.

François shrugs in a way Arthur can only describe as ' _Frenchly_ '. "Do you see any other solution?"

In Arthur's eyes, the best solution is to just not watch the damn film — but then again, he supposes he wouldn't mind spending an evening with François. It's been a while since he last spent time outside of work with people who aren't his family, or Thomassen feeling guilty about dedicating all his time to his new _beau_. Neither is great company, so.

"I suppose you're right, unfortunately," he says. François grins.

Five hours later, there is a bottle of French wine on his coffee table, an arm around his shoulders, and a lot of lofty Francophone speculation on life, the universe, and — most importantly — _le cinéma_.

Arthur isn't sure what he's most annoyed by — the French, or the fact that he understands and even agrees with most of what François is saying.

"It is, I will admit, a good film," he says as the credits roll.

"See? Next time, I am showing you _Amélie_ —"

"Hold on, _next time_? There will be no next time, you limpet—"

François bursts out laughing, and Arthur winces as red wine very nearly covers his pristine cream rug.

"I'm a _what_?"

"A _limpet_ , don't you — you cling on, you _stick_ , I can't get rid of you."

"Would you _want_ to get rid of me, _petit_?"

"Well, if you call me _little_ one more time, I _will_ be getting rid of you. By way of murder."

François raises an eyebrow. "Oh, now we both know that's not even _close_ to true."

And the worst part is, Arthur decides as François tops up their wineglasses, humming — he's damn well right.

* * *

His mood spirals quickly after that, though. It begins with Zwingli — the worst things tend to, in his eyes — and an ECG graph.

"Look at this," he says as Arthur walks into the conference room. "Do you see that?"

Arthur doesn't have to be a cardiologist to understand the graph.

"Fuck," he says quietly. "That shouldn't be happening."

"You don't say."

"Transverse myelitis and an abnormality such as that do _not_ usually end well."

"You don't _fucking_ say," repeats Zwingli.

"Get the others in here. We're not fucking done with this," Arthur says. He sinks into the chair at the head of the table and stares at the whiteboard of scrawled symptoms and solutions. They _had_ it. He was _sure_ they had it.

His team trickles in slowly, Thomassen washing up last with dishevelled hair and his tie askew. It pisses Arthur off. It _really_ fucking pisses him off.

"Thomassen, a woman is _dying_ and you were _fucking your boyfriend_?"

Thomassen doesn't defend himself. Instead, he looks down at Zwingli's ECG graph and presses his lips into a thin line. "What are we going to do?" he asks, quietly.

"What _can_ we do?" asks Héderváry.

"Chances of recovery get slimmer by the day," says Arthur. "We need to work out why the arrhythmia decided to show itself, and how severe it is — _then_ we can treat. Diagnose first, then treat."

"It could be literally anything," says Zwingli. "We need more symptoms—"

"We don't have _time_ for more symptoms, Zwingli—"

"What if it's not transverse myelitis?" Edelstein breaks in. "You keep saying yourself this isn't a normal case — what if it's not a case at all?

"So what _is_ it?"

"I don't know, but—"

"Oh, fucking hell," Arthur says. He understands, he _finally_ fucking understands, but — _fuck_ — he's too fucking _late_ —

"What?" Héderváry demands.

"Edelstein's right, it's not fucking transverse myelitis, it's a _reaction_. Where are the patient's _files_ — history of what, schizophrenia, and — oh, _fuck_."

"We took her off all meds to see if it _was_ a reaction—"

"And it _was_ ," says Arthur. "Just not to those. She's been taking them herself, without consulting anyone."

"Even if you're right, we can still treat—"

A pager beeps, and Hédervary's chair crashes to the floor. "Not for very fucking long, the patient just entered a hypertensive crisis," she says, rushing out of the room, followed by Zwingli and Edelstein.

Arthur does not move. He knows how this fucking ends. Bitterly, he realises he's seen this before — he should've fucking been able to catch it this time.

"It's always too fucking little, too fucking _late_ ," he says.

Thomassen gets up from his seat, wordlessly, and leaves.

 _Time of death_ , Zwingli reports back, _eleven-oh-four a.m_.

* * *

Arthur can't see straight, and it's only a little bit to do with the cheap wine he was drinking like water earlier. He can't really focus on anything _but_ François — but then again, why would he _want_ to? — and some part of him is telling him _no, bad, stop_ , but more of him says _yes_ , says _more_ , says _now_.

He shudders, pure, raw _pleasure_ , and François' fingernails dig into his skin and Arthur _growls_.

"Fuck," he breathes, " _fuck_ , yes, _Kristian_ —"

François freezes. Without a word, he pulls away from Arthur. Their eyes meet briefly, before François shakes his head slightly and looks away, but the _anger_ in that instant — the betrayal, the mistrust, the _humiliation_ — has Arthur's chest tightening, has his stomach clenching, has his heart aching. François picks up the clothes strewn over Arthur's floor and stalks out, not even glancing back.

"Shit," Arthur says to the empty room. It's still spinning, his head is still — _fuzzy_ — but he _knows_ — _god_ , he's fucked up.

François must hate him.

François must _hate_ him.

François _hates_ him.

He didn't want François to hate him. He's gone and fucked it up — _quelle fucking surprise_ — it's ten fucking _years_ since he last slept with Kristian Thomassen, he should be _past_ all that — but no, he's fucked up again, just as he did with Kristian, and fuck, he's gone and fucking done it now, hasn't he?

What the fuck has he _done_?

He can't sleep that night. He tosses and turns, the moment playing out again and again in his mind, and the _anger_ in Francois' face repeating every time he closes his eyes. He lies in bed, curled into a ball, his phone in hand, staring blankly at François' last texts to him — ' _Outside your flat with a bottle of wine, petit_ ' ' _Heard what happened, chéri, do you need to talk?_ ' ' _Excited to see you tonight, petit :)_ '

He realised a while ago that he doesn't hate François Bonnefois. François Bonnefois doesn't — _didn't_ — hate him. François Bonnefois is a much better choice for a lover — no deep-rooted commitment issues, no fear of affection, no crippling self-doubt. No boyfriend, either, which tends to help.

(But François Bonnefois isn't Kristian, and apparently, Arthur has a fucking problem with that.)

But he's fucked it up now, so Arthur figures he should probably just curl up and rot away in the darkest corner of his flat.

"Bit fucking dramatic," he says to himself, and pours a sixth cup of tea.

He has four missed calls from Thomassen, and a curt text asking where he is. He goes back to bed. It is four in the afternoon.

* * *

" _Fatigue_ ," Arthur announces to the four doctors in his conference room. Not a single one replies. "Ah, of course, I'm sorry, the crucial details: female, thirty-six, not the flu. So, causes?"  
"Where in God's name have you been for the last three days, Kirkland?" Zwingli asks. "Oxenstierna is minutes away from murdering you, and the same goes for Bonnefois and everyone in this room."

"Also experiencing joint pain, some chest pain, and a high fever."

"Bonnefois looked pretty conflicted when you didn't show up," Héderváry muses. "It was as if he resented you for something, but felt guilty about it at the same time. It was strange; usually, the only emotional wrecks around here are you and occasionally Andersen or Edelstein."

Arthur snaps his fingers. "You're quite right, Héderváry, it could absolutely be cancer. Edelstein, you can run a CT."

Edelstein looks blankly at him. "You list the vaguest of symptoms, and your conclusion is _cancer_?"

"He probably hasn't slept since the office party," says Thomassen. "Or maybe all he's done is sleep, and he's only half awake now. Art thou waking, Kirkland?"

Arthur smiles. "I'm very much awake, actually, but your concern touches me," he says, no feeling behind it. "That CT, Edelstein?"

"Fine," says Edelstein. "I'll do your damn CT, but _you_ can explain to Oxenstierna why you ordered an expensive test for someone with the flu."

"I'm glad we sorted that out, then," says Arthur, still smiling. "The rest of you, give me _causes_."

"Arthur, this is ridiculous," says Thomassen. "You're not thinking clearly, maybe you should just go home—"

"He's not going home," Oxenstierna says, appearing in the doorway. "Dr. Kirkland, do you realise you have missed three days of work without properly notifying your absence?"

Arthur is almost glad for the abrupt end to Thomassen's apparent concern. "Apologies, Oxenstierna, it won't happen again," he says noncommittally.

"No, it won't, and you will be filling in this lovely pile of paperwork to explain your absence," Oxenstierna says, dropping a stack of papers onto the table in front of Arthur.

Arthur doesn't bother to react.

"Edelstein, that CT?" he says, and his team stop staring at Oxenstierna. Edelstein complies, shooting a last glare at Arthur. "And Zwingli and Héderváry, you can go and find out from the patient's family whether they have any particular history of fibromyalgia—"

"A jump from cancer," says Zwingli.

"I know which one I'm inclined to agree with," says Oxenstierna, and Héderváry and Zwingli read that as their cue to leave. "A CT for what is most likely the flu, Kirkland?"

"I like to cover all bases," says Arthur. "Don't you have some paperwork to do?"

Oxenstierna raises his eyebrows, but finally leaves, and now it's just Arthur, Thomassen, and a whiteboard of symptoms Arthur honestly doesn't give a shit about.

"Maybe it's anaemia," he says absently.

Thomassen just looks at him.

"Arthur, what _happened_ after you left the party with Bonnefois?"

"Nothing happened."

"Arthur, for Christ's sake, I know you were upset about the patient, but I also know you're far too good a doctor to let it affect you this much."

"Nothing happened."

"Arthur—" Thomassen breaks off as Arthur stands up.

"I'm going to make a start on my paperwork," he announces, walking into his office. He shuts the door behind him, and Thomassen doesn't follow.

In an ideal world, Arthur would have called Kristian right after it happened, would have talked it out with his best friend and the whole thing would have been put behind him.

In the real world, Arthur screamed his best friend's name during sex. Ten years after any romantic relationship between them had crumbled. Nearly a year after Kristian found a lover, found the perfect little family life — everything he's dreamt of since his parents replaced love with wealth and affection with high expectations.

And Arthur is _happy_ for Kristian and Søren, and he's happy that Emil finally has something he can call a family, and above all, he's just happy that his best friend is happy.

But that means that it's not his place anymore to throw all his problems at Kristian and expect help in return, it's not his place to run to him first, it's not his place anymore to _depend_ on him anymore. He has a boyfriend and — essentially — a son for that.

So, you know, Arthur can't turn to him, and he certainly can't turn to anyone else.

"Kirkland."

Arthur looks up.  
"Kirkland, do you have a moment?"

Andersen looks — _anxious?_ — but in all honestly, Arthur doesn't really give a shit about Kristian's boyfriend right now.

"Thomassen is in the conference room," he tells him.

"No, no, it's you I want to talk to, I need a second opinion—"

"I have paperwork," Arthur says, gesturing to the stack of papers he has no intention of looking at. "Sorry, Andersen, but I'm sure Thomassen can help you with whatever it is you need."

Andersen looks disappointed, but Arthur stops paying attention.

 _God_ , he's fucked up with François.

The problem is — if it was anyone else, he probably wouldn't care. Except in terms of psychoanalysing himself and his apparent inability to just fucking let Kristian _go_. And admittedly, he was drunk out of his fucking _mind_ at the office party, and pretty much everything that happened before he and François went back to his flat is a blur. But going on what little he does remember — François' gentle hands, soft, smooth skin, clouds of silky golden hair and fresh, rosy lips — Arthur can't remember why he was ever in love with Kristian Thomassen.

And _yes,_ they're _different_ : François is so many things that Kristian was not, and Kristian was so many things that François is not. Arthur _knows_ he'll never get back those blissful days of their first summer at Cambridge — but somehow, François makes him feel like he doesn't _need_ to.

It's different. But so is Arthur — thirty-year-old Arthur doesn't need the same kind of love as nineteen-year-old Arthur.

But now — now he's lost _all_ kinds of love. Because he's fucked up, he's fucked up again, he always fucks everything up—

"I've never seen anyone look so despairingly at a paperweight," says Thomassen.

"Why are you here? You should be trying to cure that poor woman's flu."

"You need to talk," Kristian tells him, pulling out the chair on the other side of his desk and sitting down in it. Arthur questions how he manages to fucking do even _that_ elegantly.

"I do not need to _talk._ "

"What happened?"

Arthur sighs. "I—" He stops. Kristian looks at him expectantly, and he's not seen that look since — since the day Kristian decided to quit.

He closes his eyes, and tries again. "Fucking hell, Kristian, I fucked up. I fucked up, I pissed him off, and rightfully so, too, I'd be angry — but fucking hell, why do I always do this? Why can't I just have a relationship with someone I care about and not end up with them hating me?" Arthur realises he's crying, and Kristian bites his lip.

"Hey, I'm sure you can resolve it. Honestly!" he says as he sees Arthur's look of sad disagreement. "I get the feeling you're not going to tell me what you did, but I'm sure it's not so bad that you can't talk it through with him, or make it up to him. Have you even spoken to him since?"

"Well, no, but—"

"That'd be a pretty good place to start."

"Well, yes, but—" Arthur takes a deep breath. "Fuck, Kristian, I think he _hates_ me. And it was so perfect, too, you know? We watched a ridiculous French film together, and then just sat and talked for hours, and then I fucked it all up because I just don't know how to handle a fucking adult relationship — god, I'm going to fucking _die_ alone, I'm never going to be fulfilled, and I'm just going to push away everyone I meet until it's just me and a bloody _cat_ and that'll be it — that'll be _it_. That's what my personal life will look like: a string of failed relationships, a dysfunctional family, and a cat."

"I mean, cats are pretty good company," says Kristian, and Arthur gives him his best look of pure contempt through his tears. "Look, Arthur, and I mean this kindly — maybe you just need to reflect on your priorities here. Perfection is great, but maybe you need to try and let go of the idea of everything being absolutely perfect, and try to just find happiness instead."

Arthur laughs bitterly. "You make it sound so easy, but you're just as bad as me."

"You're not wrong, but you should still try to talk things through with François and try to forget whatever it was that happened — or rather, _learn_ from it and _build_ on it and grow a stronger relationship."

Arthur chews his lip. He knows Kristian is right. But — it doesn't make it any easier.

Kristian brushes his hair out of his face, and his hand catches the sun streaming in, throwing shards of light all over Arthur's office.

"Is that — an _engagement ring_?"

Kristian flinches, and quickly says, "I was going to tell you—"

"I cannot believe this. You're _marrying_ Andersen?"

"Arthur, I _love_ him—"

"Have you even told him?"

Kristian falls silent, pain in his eyes. Arthur shakes his head. He's _angry_ — angry on Andersen's behalf, on behalf of someone marrying into a mess of secrets he hasn't been told the half of.

"You've barely been seeing him for a year! You were only _living_ together because you _needed_ someone, and not in an emotional sense, and I thought — _everyone_ thought — he'd move out once you'd recovered — Kristian, he _deserves_ to know."

"What would _you_ do?" Kristian asks suddenly. "Tell me, Arthur, what would you do if you knew you were dying, and you knew it would kill the man you loved to know it? What would you do, if the person who made you happier than you _ever_ thought you could be asked you to marry them — would you really refuse them? Would you really refuse yourself that? Would you really refuse me a last few years of happiness?"

"I'm not saying you should've said _no_ , I'm just saying you shouldn't be so fucking _selfish_ —" Arthur breaks off, realising he doesn't have the energy to argue anymore. "You know what, just forget it," he says quietly. "Congratulations, Kristian. I'm very happy for you."

He shrugs his coat on, and leaves his office in silence.

* * *

Arthur dreams of Cambridge that night. He dreams of that beautiful, golden summer, at the end of their first year; of Kristian, freshly eighteen and choking on his first sip of vodka; of the long, hot days in the grounds of the college; of the good morning kisses and the goodnight cuddles.

He dreams of sitting on his bed in his tiny, shitty student halls, listening as Kristian told him about why he hadn't gone home that summer. He told him of his mother, who reserved affection only for highest grades, how anything else would land him locked in his room with his books. Of his father, who would ignore him until it came to work functions, whereupon he would be a trophy — a violin recital, an impromptu show of his perfect English and practiced Latin, but his father put no _pride_ behind it; simply _arrogance_.

He told him of how one day, he'd take his little brother out of there, how he'd do anything to keep Emil from losing his childhood as he did; how one day, he hoped he could have a _real_ family.

(Arthur had thought, then, that he'd be the one to complete the family of three — that _he'd_ be the one to save Kristian.)

He dreams of how he'd leant in to kiss Kristian one day to find his boyfriend shying away from his touch, shaking his head, saying it was too fast, too much, too soon. He wasn't ready; he was only eighteen and Arthur was twenty and Kristian didn't want anything _serious_ , and Arthur realised that maybe, just _maybe_ , he wasn't meant to be the one in the picture frame after all—

and he tried, he _tried_ to keep his grasp on Kristian, sending him cards, buying him flowers, the way his brothers had always done for the girls they loved, but

Arthur, you can't _buy_ him, Andrei had said

and Kristian had shaken his head

and Arthur realised then that he'd made a mistake, bringing primary school rules to adult relationships, and his world had fallen down around him, because maybe if he hadn't been so damn _stupid_ , Kristian would still be his — or at least he might even look at him—

He dreams of the day Kristian had taken his hand and told him it was _okay_ — they were still friends, still best friends. Kristian had forgiven him — now Arthur had to forgive _himself_ — and for god's _sake_ , see a fucking therapist, because his family issues ran deeper than Kristian's.

Arthur wakes up at six-thirty, gets dressed, and is on time to work.

* * *

"Beilschmidt," Arthur says. "Is Bonnefois not around?"

"He's here, he's in surgery," says Beilschmidt, an eyebrow raised. "I expect he'll be finished shortly. You're not planning on doing any more damage to my employees' productivity, are you?"

"More? Zwingli isn't your employee, and I didn't cause his little meltdown."

"But you did Bonnefois."

"I did, indeed, do Bonnefois," Arthur agrees, and Beilschmidt glares at him. "I just want to talk to him, is that allowed?"

Beilschmidt innocently raises his hands. "I'm not _disallowing_ anything."

"Excellent," says Arthur, and makes himself comfortable in the Cardiology lounge.

Bonnefois walks in ten minutes later, looking tired, stressed, with rumpled scrubs and hair scraped into a messy ponytail and Arthur swears he's never seen anything more beautiful. Not even the scowl upon seeing Arthur ruins it.

"Kirkland," he says curtly, and Arthur stands up.

"François, I'd like to talk—"

"I'm not sure _I_ would."

"Please," Arthur says. "I'm really, truly sorry for what I did."

"You _humiliated_ me."

"I know, and I'm sorry, I really am. If I could change it—"

"You can't."

"I _know_ , I know that. I really, really regret it. But I really like you, François. Would you please just _consider_ giving me another chance?"

François looks at him, long and hard. "I imagine it took you and your ridiculous pride a lot to say that," he says finally. "So — I suppose."

It hurts Arthur more he can explain not to hear the usual ' _petit'_ , but François' words are an immense weight off his shoulders.

"Oh, thank god," Arthur breathes. "Thank you — _god_ , thank you—"

"I couldn't stay mad at you much longer, petit, even though you deserve it," François says with a tired smile, pulling the hair tie out of his hair and letting himself fall back into the less-than-clean sofa.

Arthur tries to bite back his smile, but ultimately fails. "Oh, thank fuck, I've been losing my fucking mind."

"Doesn't take a lot, though," François says, and Arthur laughs.

"You're fucking right," he says. "I'm a bloody mess."

"But," says François, pulling him down next to him and taking his hand, "for some reason, you're my bloody mess. My flatmates are in Spain, you're coming over and watching a French film and drinking French wine tonight, okay?"

Arthur grins. "Okay."

( _Le Fabuleux Dèstin d'Amélie Poulain_ , Arthur decides, would probably have made a lot more sense had they spent less time — ah — _snuggling_ on François' big, throw-covered sofas. One scene in particular, however, manages to stick in his mind, as les _quinze_ couples en train d'avoir un orgasme deviennent _seize_.)

* * *

"Good morning," Arthur says brightly to his team, all hunched over the conference table nursing coffees. Belatedly, he remembers it was Héderváry's thirtieth yesterday — but he can't imagine they'd have missed him.

"Bonnefois looked pretty chipper, too," Zwingli informs the room.

Arthur ignores him, instead choosing to sit on the table and stare at the whiteboard, swinging his legs as he scans the lists of symptoms.

"You know, I cannot work this one out," he says thoughtfully. Fatigue, fever, joint pain, and more recently, headaches — it's just too broad. Nearly a decade of med school — along with everyone in the room — tells him to discharge her and her influenza, but his own instinct (a _highly_ scientific tool, of course) tells him he _knows_ it, and it's not something cured with bed rest and Night Nurse.

"I'm pretty sure Edelstein is experiencing all of the listed symptoms, should we be quarantining him?" Thomassen asks drily.

"It's not contagious, Thomassen, her husband is perfectly fine," Arthur replies. Thomassen shoots him a deeply unimpressed look.

"These are barely even symptoms, Kirkland," says Héderváry. "The fever, sure, but joint pain? Fatigue? She's thirty-six, she's got a full-time job and two children, and she probably last caught a break in the noughties. It's no wonder she's feeling rough."

"Are you feeling the effects of old age now you're in your thirties, Héderváry? Is sympathy clouding your judgement?"

"Can _you_ still run five miles in under under thirty-five miles, Kirkland?" Thomassen asks. "Is that a grey hair I see? Thirty isn't really your friend, either, is it?"

Arthur opens his mouth to retaliate with a masterpiece of a remark about Thomassen being in his twenties and Andersen being a cradle-snatcher, but then it occurs to him — old age. Fatigue. _Memory loss_.

"It's lupus," he breathes, and his hungover team don't seem to have the energy to question him. "Héderváry's right — well, actually, she couldn't be more wrong, but — what if there were more symptoms the patient — and _we_ — had just passed off as the wonderful effects of getting older? Zwingli, go and ask if she's been experiencing memory loss and stiffness — and get an ANA and full blood count to start."

" _Lupus_ ," repeats Zwingli disbelievingly, but he backs off at a glare from Arthur.

"I have _never_ had a case of lupus, don't ruin this for me," he says.

"It's a hell of a stretch," says Edelstein.

"It's _always_ a hell of a stretch," says Thomassen. "That's why there are four of us to tell him he's wrong."

"But this time, I'm right," Arthur says. "I know it. I'm certain of it."

"She's anaemic," Edelstein says suddenly, and the whole room turns to look at him. "It — it's in the file. Lupus would make sense."

There's a long pause.

" _No one_ read the file?" says Arthur. It isn't really a question.

"Neither did you, otherwise you'd have mentioned anaemia sooner," Thomassen points out. "We would have probably called it a nasty cold and discharged her sooner if we'd known about the anaemia."

Arthur shakes his head. "None of you deserve your paycheques," he says. "You're meant to be the ones who reel me in so that Oxenstierna doesn't have to dip into the lawsuit fund he has stashed away for me."

"We are _terrible_ doctors," Zwingli says, getting up to question their patient. "People die when we make mistakes, and we _know_ that, and yet we get drunk and come into work hungover — I'm sorry, Kirkland, that's the last you'll see of my negligence."

Zwingli's face is grim as he leaves the room, and the other three look sheepish as Arthur wipes the board clean. Five minutes later, Edelstein's pager beeps.

"It's lupus," he announces.

Arthur smiles. "It's nice not to be the one fucking up for a change."

Edelstein stands up, brushes off his coat, and takes a last sip of coffee. "I'm going to confirm," he says.

"Me too," Héderváry says quickly, and Thomassen follows, leaving Arthur alone in the conference room with a satisfied smile.

As a human being, he knows he shouldn't be so happy about an autoimmune disease, but as a diagnostician — _lupus_. He's never had a real case of lupus.

His quiet celebrations are interrupted by a knock on the door, and when he yells _come in_ , Søren Andersen walks in.

"Ah, Andersen. Congratulations on the engagement. Can I help you?"

Andersen doesn't smile back at him. "Thanks. Could I — uh — get a second opinion on this?" he asks, holding out a file.

It's a CT, a perfectly regular case of locally advanced lung cancer, stage 3A, and it doesn't explain why Andersen is here. He must have seen a million of these before.

"I don't understand, Andersen, you know the diagnosis, why are you showing _me_ —?"

The patient name at the top of the image kills the words on his tongue.

 _Andersen, S._

* * *

 _french notes:_ _À Bout de Souffle_ ('Breathless') is a 1960 (French New Wave) crime film regarded to be a masterpiece of French film.

 _Le Fabuleux Dèstin d'Amélie Poulain_ ('Amélie') is a much-loved, 'whimsical' 2001 romcom. In the one scene Arthur remembers, Amélie wonders how many couples are orgasming in Paris, and answers her own question with 'fifteen'. _Les quinze couples en train d'avoir un orgasme deviennent seize._ : The fifteen couples orgasming becomes sixteen.


End file.
